


The Thinker's Sandlady

by wildair7



Series: Sandlady Sagas [3]
Category: Logan's Run (1976), Logan's Run Series - William F. Nolan & George Clayton Johnson
Genre: F/M, Logan's Run, Sandlady Sagas, Sandman Sentinel, United Sandmen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-20 09:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13714818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildair7/pseuds/wildair7
Summary: The daughter of Vera 4 and Jonathan comes to Earth to serve as the newest member of the Meldanan agent corps which has infiltrated every city on the planet as observers. She has been trained in all the specialties of DS personnel and has received instruction in dealing with the emotional and physical issues which might arise, but is unprepared to meet a new kind of agent--a Thinker agent, and not only a Thinker-agent but the man who is a direct descendant of the man who originally programmed Thinker.





	1. Chapter 1

## Chapter One

 

     It had been difficult to persuade her parents she was ready to be on her own, difficult to convince them her decision hadn’t been a simple whim but intensely thought out and mused over, night after night, over a period of several years.  After all, it wasn’t her fault she’d tried to tell them weeks before, while they reminisced with the Sanctuary people, but the very moment she gathered courage to speak out, they’d diverge to another subject or leave the room. There was also the problem of her mother having one of her better days, which became less frequent, and today was one of those. Today her mother would remember the conversation, and when the time came that only Cassandra’s father remained to remind her of their daughter’s whereabouts, she couldn’t complain of not knowing.

     Resolute and knowing neither shyness nor indecision could put it off, she stood before their unit door, inhaled deeply and smoothed the front of the silver-gray trimsuit she wore, the color of her eyes. An exhale later, she palmed the lock and walked through where she found them alone on the sofa, where she faced them.

     “I’ve made a decision for my future,” she began, standing stiff and determined.

     “About time. And what have you decided, dear daughter?” said her father.

     “I’ve applied for Earth Service as an agent.”

      “But you haven’t gone through the preparations to enter the program,” said her father, once she finally spat out the words of her intent.

     “So, I’ll train for a few months in what specifics I need. I’m already strong enough, and my psych profile—”

     “You just don’t realize what it’s like down there,” pleaded her mother, rising and running a pale, delicate hand over Cassandra’s hair and smoothing her long ponytail. “The way men treat women, the things that go on in the populace. No psych profile can predict how you’ll react to such things. I know!”

     “Mother,” Cassandra argued, easing away her hand and holding it between her own, “it’s the

same profile used for the last thirty years for determining eligibility for the Earth program. You never took the psych tests. You were born into that culture. I wasn’t.”

     “Jonathan, talk to her, will you?” asked her mother of her father.

     “She’s right, Vera, my love. I’m sorry, but she is right.”

     “What?” Her mother went pale with indignation and disbelief, eyes rounded from his disagreement over something so serious.

     “Let her take the remainder of the tests and do some training. If she passes, then we’ll see. She’s an adult, Vera. We can’t coddle her forever. Besides, Ballard’s got things pretty much resolved down there. Within a year, we’ll be pulling out all our people.”

      With her father’s words, Cassandra knew she had finally won.

     “Just promise me one thing, sweetheart,” her mother had said, placing a protective arm about her daughter’s shoulder, resigned at last, “don’t go to New City.”

 

     Six months later, Cassandra found herself, packet in hand, on her way up the black steps of DS Headquarters at one of the largest domed cities still standing in the Western Hemisphere—Dalworth, dressed in typical trainee attire: black tunic and green leggings. On the first floor of the Senior Operative’s black, granite-tiles office, she handed over the packet to the man’s assistant, who seemed less than enthusiastic—even bored—with her arrival and her disrupting his task at a shiny chrome keyboard on his desk.

     “Cassandra Three, huh?”

     “Yes, sir. I’ve just completed B-level training at New City, pulled in a few minutes ago, in fact,” she chatted on, covering her nervousness.

     He held up a hand to stop any further words, then rose. “Just a minute.” He left, went into another room, and was gone quite a while before he returned. “Primary’s busy.”

    “But I had an appointment,” she said with conviction.

     “He’s busy, I told you. Come back next week.” The man was obviously growing impatient, the color of his facial skin, turning a blush red under his healthy tan.

     “But I don’t even have a quadroom. I was supposed to—”

     Again, he cut her off. “Third floor, Room thirty-two.” He’d gone back to whatever he’d been doing on his keyboard when she came in.

     Cassandra reined in her native impatience and countered, “Why can’t you assign me a room from your terminal here? In New City—”

     He looked up from the keyboard, pointedly. “This isn’t New City, so get that straight right now. Upstairs you’ll be given your room assignment.”

     Cassandra snorted under her breath and mumbled, “Sorry to have bothered you, I’m sure.”

     Again, the subordinate glared at her. “What was that remark, trainee?”

     “Sorry to have bothered you…, sir.” Hands clenched at her sides, the words came out reluctantly.

     “You may leave, trainee.”

     His attention once more on the keyboard, she turned and left, muttering to herself. _Why couldn’t they send me down as a full operative like the others?_ she wondered as she walked away, searching for the blank-walled white corridor which lead to the upstairs lift _. Why must I put up with this subservient cow-towing?_

     After a long walk, Cassandra discovered Dalworth DS didn’t have lifts, only stairs. Stairs were better for the physical condition of DS personnel, she assumed. And, while she waited over an hour in a near-deserted Room Thirty-Two upstairs, for her quadroom assignment—her official assignment—reflected she’d not met a single sympathetic human being in the entire city.

 

     An uneventful week later, one spent exploring a boring, cement-filled metropolis, she sat once more in the empty waiting area outside the Primary’s office. Last time she checked the chronometer on the stark, black wall in front of her, two hours had passed since she announced her name.

     A sudden, polite male voice from the wall-speak summoned her from the eerie silence. “Trainee Cassandra Three, enter, please.”

      Inside the precious sanctum of the Primary, the sight of the man himself, hardly matched his voice. Tall, bone-thin, with angled features and dark, piercing eyes, he seemed only superficially polite as he gestured her to sit in the chair opposite his heavily cushioned one across a glossy plasticine desk, or at least she assumed this was its composition. Spread everywhere on its glimpses of blue surface, he shuffled through the multitude of paperwork which had accompanied her, asking her question after question, glancing at a paper then back to her.

     “Well, Cassandra Three, your stats are very impressive,” he said, tapping one sheet with lean fingers whose nails were immaculately groomed. “Can’t imagine why New City even let you go with ones like these.”

     “They were overloaded with A-levels, sir.”

     “Hmm, well, I’m afraid that’s our problem, too. Not enough Operatives to go around for the A-levels. Over the last two months, we’ve lost several on Lastday. These things go in cycles, you see.”

     “Yes, sir,” she said, trying not to squirm or say something offensive, “but—”

    “Tell me, dear,” he asked, stylus posed, “would you be agreeable to transferring to some other city?”

     _Dear, he called me dear!_ “Well, sir,” she said, the indignity of his words fading, “I hadn’t thought about that contingency. I suppose—"

     “Of _course_ , you wouldn’t mind,” he finished for her, already writing. “Don’t suppose you have any preferences, either.”

     “Well sir, I—”

     “You are dismissed. We’ll be in touch with any further developments.”

     The royal brushoff, again! Two days in Dalworth Dome and already she despised the City and all those living here. Regardless of the Primary’s words, she’d not seen many A-levels during her strolls through the city, but she had seen lots of Operatives. No females, just males. Did they think her so stupid she couldn’t put two and two together?

     One: they didn’t like female DS. Two: they preferred not bothering to spend the manpower for training an “inferior” sex. Three: the best way to solve the problem was by a: ignoring her so she’d give up or b: send her where she would be more “tolerated”—and no longer Dalworth’s problem.

 

     Three more boring weeks passed, and the four gray walls of her cube-like quadroom seemed to be closing in on her, its non-luxurious furnishings built into the walls, leaving the living and sleeping space lacking in overall ambience. She’d hate to see what the B, C and D level trainees occupied.

    To the good, she’d been allowed access of the gym and library at HQ, for what value those facilities possessed!  The gym was deserted at the hours she was allotted, and the equipment primitive and sparse, compared to what she had previously used. As for the library, its computer refused her access to most of the subjects she briefly considered; and the ones which disinterested her were decidedly incomplete or inaccurate.

     While she’d yet seen a single female DS, her presence appeared to be cause for little more than a causal, sidelong glance. None of the males were extremely handsome—not by her standards, at least. Maybe she wasn’t that attractive by theirs, either. At any rate, no one seemed interested in her. Was she really that ugly? Everyone at Sanctuary said she looked the spitting image of her grandmother Vera Three, and to hear her father talk, New City men and others had practically fallen on her like bees on honey. Damn, she missed Sanctuary!  And “Him.”

     Not allowing herself to so much as think his name since leaving, Cassandra reasoned she wouldn’t miss him. But that tact failed miserably. She did miss him, terribly. Of course, her parents never knew of their relationship and would have disapproved completely if they had. He was older than her…much older, chronologically. Physically, they were closer. Being of Meldanan blood and spending the last six years of her life on the distant planet of Meldana, had accelerated her growth; and although she was chronologically under a decade old, she was physically about twenty-three.

     Cassandra had met him when she and her parents had returned to Sanctuary II the year before. His charisma had entranced her immediately. The dark brown hair, the hazel eyes in a quiet, ever-calm face weren’t new to her, but he possessed some quality which drew her to him and him to her. In a short time, they became lovers, meeting secretly in the unoccupied sections of Sanctuary, except matters proceeded too rapidly. He wanted to marry, but she wasn’t prepared to break the news to her parents and was unsure she was in love with him. Wasn’t sure, because she’d never been in love, never had a lover before. Never felt this way before—so consumed with the need of his touch, his presence and his loving ways. How could she be certain what she felt wasn’t plain, unbridled lust? Could she be sure it wasn’t simply a strong physical attraction? That was when she decided to go ahead with her childhood fantasy of volunteering for the Earth Agent Program, to get away, give them both time to “cool down” apart. He had not been pleased.

     Coming back to her senses, Cassandra forced herself to erase that last scene between them from her consciousness, the angry words said to one another, words which hurt, cut, and tore at the emotions. Hours passed after he had huffed off, before her tears dried sufficiently to appear in public as her usual controlled self. He hadn’t even come to say good-bye when she left for Earth. That had hurt the most.

     Cassandra now lay on what she called “the slab.” Actually, it consisted of a slightly cushioned shelf which pulled out from one of the four walls to form a sleep platform, narrow in the extreme and inconducive to sleep of any kind. Even the floor was more comfortable and the reason why she usually ended up sleeping there.

     Computer announced “OH-SEVEN-HUNDRED, DAY OF THE CITY, AQUARIUS TWENTY, YEAR TWENTY-THREE-OH-TWO.”

      She looked again at one of the few personal items brought with her: holographs of her mother and father in their DS uniforms. In Earth time, they were made a scant seven years ago. Her uncle, Ballard Three, was still an active Operative in New City, still working on replacing the cloned cells in the Regeneration Complex with ones he found stored generations earlier in a secret location. Like her uncle, she knew there were others, like them, scattered across the globe, monitoring and interacting with the various domed cultures of the world. To her personal knowledge, she’d yet to meet one and wondered if she ever would.

 

     The Senior Operative walked into the Primary’s office that same morning, a smile on his face, and handed his superior his work tablet. “Think you’ll like seeing this.”

     Primary Buchanan Five looked up from what he was reading on the vid-screen, took the tablet, glanced at it briefly and smiled, also. “At last! Good. All we needed here was another crazy from New City, like the one eight years ago. Notify her. When will their operative be here, anyway?”

     “Should be any day. Too bad she’s got New City blood in her. Quite a looker,” said Webb Six, taking back the sheet.

    “Yeah, bad genes will always tell, though. We’re better off rid of her, no matter how good or good-looking she is.”

 

     Trapped in this ‘car for over ten hours on his journey to Dalworth Dome, Heinrich Seven once more reviewed the dossier on Cassandra Three, the trainee he would accompany back to his own dome. He was very pleased with her. His eyes shining and a smile on his well-tanned face, he reflected on the number of years they had waited for such a trainee…this particular trainee. They considered themselves fortunate, indeed!

     The tablet stuffed back into his vinyl travel pouch, he punched up arrival time on the mazecar’s console. 220 MNS blinked in neon-green.

     Good. Very good. He should be on his way home in less than two hours, unless the girl held him up.

     He pulled out her holo, assessing it once more. Gott in Himmel, she was beautiful! Perfect for their program.

 

     Upon his arrival at the station nearest the woman’s assigned quad, he put a security hold on the mazecar and rushed straight to her room, noticing the absolute starkness of the area. It hadn’t been that way ten years before, he remembered. A few citz out at this early hour: 07:15—most, he guessed, were still snug in their beds. A few DS on early patrol stared at him as he passed.

     _Bunch of runts!_ They reminded him of the ones at Angelo Dome out west. Yes, the less time he spent here, the better. In fifteen minutes, he found the quadroom marked 32 on the fifth floor of Quad R and pressed the buzzer.

 

     Damn, who could be waking her at this hour? Virtually ignored for close to a month, who even cared to wake her, for that matter? Regardless, Cassandra dragged herself to the door and opened it, breath-taken by the man standing there, because nothing like this had impressed her since leaving Sanctuary.

    The Operative filling the doorway was at least her father’s height, if not taller: two meters, with moon-blue eyes topped by pale brows set in a well-tanned perfectly molded face, brows which matched his longish nearly white blond hair, and a full mouth which made her ache to kiss it. In what she hoped consisted of a furtive glance downward, she noticed his flawless body in a uniform which fit him like the proverbial glove, totally black, except for a thin piping of red along the upright military collar and a red embroidered City shield on his left breast, depicting a spread winged black eagle.

     She was totally speechless.

 

     The real woman was more breathtaking than her holo, although her long dark hair stood in disarray, disheveled from sleep and the velverobe she wore conformed less than perfectly on her too perfect body. One ivory shoulder left exposed, she tugged at the garment, self-consciously righting it to a more decent position.

     He’d seen eyes like those glaring at him both in anger and curiosity, once before. Yes, he’d definitely come to the right place.

     “I’m Heinrich Seven. I’ve come to take you to Heidelberg Dome,” he managed, still taken aback by her beauty.

     A small pale hand rubbed across her sleepy eyes as she stammered, “Wha—what?”

     “They didn’t tell you?”

     “Tell me…?”

     “About your transfer.”

     “Uh, no.”

     He brushed past her into the room. “Gather your personals and get dressed, while I contact HQ,”

     A few minutes later, she returned, outfitted perfectly in black tunic and green leggings. He could see his assessment of her figure, earlier, had been accurate: full breasts and rounded hips: “breeding hips” the ancients called them.

     “All’s taken care of except turning in your equipment. They only now received notification from our Computer of your transfer."

     “Other than this belt, they never issued me any equipment,” the beauty said, pointing to the utility belt at her small waist. On it hung a single pouch containing her personals.

     “No?”

     “No.”

     “Strange. Give me a moment.” He fiddled at the terminal a bit longer. She was right. They were virtually free to go. He notified DW-DS, and they cleared her for travel. A glance about the room, assuring himself nothing of hers remained, he followed her out the door. She seemed less than sorry to leave, and he couldn’t blame her.

 

     Back inside the ‘car and on their way, Heinrich perused her more closely.

     While he did, she thought, _Heidelberg. Well, if this one was an example of the genetic engineering there, it would seem the Germans had come up with the perfect Aryan._ She tingled merely sitting next to him.

     “Once we get to Heidelberg,” he was saying, “you’ll be integrated at HQ and reassessed before being reassigned, possibly, to full operative status.”

     “You think there’s a possibility?” she replied, not taking her eyes off him, which consisted, presently, of only his profiles, his eyes being occupied with the console readouts.

    

     “It’s a lengthy travel. Ten hours in this car, then a ‘vane flight across the—” He made the mistake of looking at her. “—Atlantic,” he finished after what he prayed was an imperceptible pause. “You’ll forgive my bluntness, Fräulein, but you look older than Green Six.”

     She blushed, then regained her composure. “And you look older than _Red_ Six.”

     “Oh, that,” he answered, diverting his attention to the console. “We don’t terminate at thirty.” He opened a compartment and withdrew a large pouch, changing the subject. “Here, you’ll need this later. It gets much colder farther out. You don’t speak German, do you?”

     She shook her head.  “You said—” she began.

     “Never mind, we’ll get you a language transplant at HQ.”

     “You said,” she tried again, “you don’t terminate—"

     “Have you ever been Outside, except for your trip to Dalworth?” he interrupted, again ignoring her question.

     “No, but—”

     “Didn’t think so, just becoming A-level. I think you’ll like Heidelberg,” he babbled on, “it’s quite old, but there’s a great deal of modern technology and modern architecture, as well…”

 

     Cassandra gave up; he was talking so quickly, there was no chance to get a word in edgewise. In fact, he often lapsed into German, so she just leaned back into cushioned softness of the reclined seat and appraised him inch by inch, tuning out his constant chatter.

     _Better than anything at Sanctuary. Categorically better!_   Ten hours and then a flight across the ocean; a lot could happen between two people in that amount of time. Quite a lot. Unfortunately, she had no idea how true that would be.

 

     Cassandra had fallen asleep, much to Heinrich relief, because he was running out of things to talk about. If he only knew the truth contained in her dossier, he might have been more open with her. Would she have forgotten his comment about not terminating at thirty when she awoke? Not likely.

    Next to him, curled up under a thermsheet only a scant centimeter away, she lay like a young child. If he dared, he could probably feel her breath on his face if he turned toward her. Hair so soft, skin so flawless he longed to touch them and caress her cheek with his rough hand, and longed to gently brush her lips with his.

     But at that moment, a blaring alarm sounded from the console, flashing red lights and a voice proclaiming, TUNNEL INTEGRITY JEOPARDIZED. EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY. NEAREST STATION, AFT, 10 MTRS.

     The mazecar had already stopped, and the canopy slid back as he woke the trainee. “Cassandra,” he said, shaking her, “come! We must get out at once.”

     “What--?”

     “Now! Come.”

     With her out of the mazecar and fully awake, they raced down the tunnel, Heinrich pulling her along by the hand until they reached the station stairs, where the concrete stairway lurched beneath them, tossing them from side to side.

     “Earthquake! On the surface, quickly!” he ordered. The ground heaved all about them, its tremors flinging them back nearly as far as they’d advanced, thus making it almost impossible to make much headway, Beyond the station’s entrance, trees vanished into gaping holes, as the barren earth collapsed into itself, and huge boulders seemed to walk across the terrain in supernatural abandon. Once above ground, they found shelter in what seemed a rather stable archway of a small granite cave.

     When rubble began pouring down from outside in a suffocating cloud of dirt and dust, Heinrich drew Cassandra instinctively to him. “Cover your nose and mouth with your tunic,” he ordered the woman, shouting over the deafening roar of the earth rending itself and pulling up his own collar.

 

     She sensed the panicked onslaught of the man’s emotions, although fear was not among them. Usually calm, his principle emotion consisted currently of impatience.

     Her hands fumbled with the black neckline of her tunic, bringing it up over her lower face just as the ground jolted beneath them and thrust her farther into his arms. In response, he held her tighter, pressing her head to his chest with his free hand and bending over her to take the brunt of the falling pebbles, soil and rock debris.

     Cassandra had never heard such a deafening cacophony, not even on the moon where seasonal quakes still occurred. But nothing like this! She shrunk more against Heinrich’s hard body, trying to muffle the horrible sounds. Could he feel her shivering and trembling, the stifled whine she could scarce control, coming between tightly compressed lips? Even over the earth’s roar, she could hear the steady, comforting throb of his heartbeat, as if this were all expected and nothing out of the ordinary.

     Hours seemed to pass before the first tremor ended, without the overlap of other tremors varying with intensity. But still, he did not release her, instead looking down at her and brushing a piece of crumbled granite off her cheek. She knew his words before he asked.

     “You all right?”

     She glanced down at her torn dusty tunic and hose then up at him. “I think so.”

    He relaxed his hold on her slowly, saying, “You wait here, while I check the tunnel.”

    “No,” she said, tugging at his sleeve. “I’m going with you.”

    He was worried. “If there are aftershocks, you’ll be safer here.”

    “No, I’m going with you.”

    He surrendered to her will and Cassandra followed him across the jumbled landscape, gaping cracks and fallen trees to the debris-covered stairs of the mazestation. When he gestured her to stay back, she obeyed the unspoken command. Still within sight, she watched him check the call box, obviously non-operational, then disappear down the tunnel, where she assumed he found the car, for he returned shortly thereafter with his bag and a larger one from which protruded the silvery edge of a thermsheet.

     “Tunnel ahead’s collapsed,” he said, climbing the stairs. We’ll have to go on foot. There’s enough water for two days, and if we run out of nutriwafers can forage for food.”

     “You think we’ll find another ‘car?”

     “Should be one a hundred miles from here…or at least a station we can call one from.”

     “That’s a three-day hike.”

     “No one ever said being DS was easy. Besides, you’re young and strong. Here,” he added, handing her the larger bag, “everyone carries his own weight.”

     She took it and slung it over her shoulder before Heinrich had already taken off and was nearly at the horizon, so ran to catch up, his long strides making her work twice as hard to close the distance. This would be a long three days.

 

     “You sent her to _Dalworth_?” Inside his Sanctuary quarters, Ballard threw his black and gray uniform tunic across the room. He’d only come for a day or two, for his yearly debriefing. “I can’t believe it!” he continued, pacing across the living area, running his fingers through his golden blond hair. “She’s too young for those Spartans and giving her the cover story of training in New City…  Did you forget Logan Six was sent to Dalworth for a year, and they nearly lynched him? Dalworth’s won’t accept anyone from New City, after that, much less a trainee.”

     Jonathan raised his hand in a gesture meant to placate the former Primary of New City DS. “All right, so we fouled up. And she’s not that young; you forget time passes more quickly here and the young mature more rapidly. She’s twenty-three, Stalas,” he said, using the man’s original Meldanan name.

     “So, have you heard from her?”

     Jonathan combed a hand through his graying hair and turned away from his brother-in-law, muttering, “No, not yet.”

     “What? How long has she been gone?”

     “About one Earth month,” said Jonathan, turning.

     “And Vera’s not climbing the walls? What have you been doing…lying to her? Or just not answering her? Don’t tell me she’s not suspicious.”

     “You know how she is,” Jonathan explained,” some days, even weeks not aware of much reality…here or there. I don’t think she realizes how much time has passed, and her condition seems to be worsening, despite all we’ve done since bringing her back from Earth.”

     “That was bad business, all right, and I always thought her stronger…emotionally, erroneously it would seem. Well,” Ballard said, “the least I can do is track Cassandra from my end, maybe from the House or through Network. Someone’s got to have heard _some_ thing.”

     Jonathan only nodded in reply.

     “What’s really bothering you?” asked Ballard/Stalas, eyeing him seriously.

     “That she’s fallen into the wrong hands, that’s what, not just Dalworth, but some _one_ , some _where_ else.”

     “You didn’t put down her true pedigree, did you,” asked Ballard, grabbing the older man’s arm.

     “Not me, but someone in—”

     “Well, it’s the only explanation. Great!” he said, letting go. “How much Vera Three genetic factor does she have?”

     “About fifty-five percent—some from my side.”

     “And ninety percent essence?”

     “Yeah.”

     “We’re in trouble.”

     “I know.”

     “How much of Vera Three’s personality?”

     Jonathan blew out his cheeks. “You wouldn’t believe it unless you witnessed it.”

     “Stubborn?”

     “In spades.”

     “Independent!”

     “Yep.”

     “Self-confident?”

     “Uh-huh.”

     “Oh, boy.”

     “Mm.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two  
An hour before dusk, Heinrich slowed his pace. Cassandra’s legs were killing her. Pounding a treadmill for thirty miles and loping over actual craggy boulders: up, down, to the side, down, down, up, crawl, down, and over was much more tiring; and they’d covered a good thirty-five miles that day, stopping only briefly. Around them, the sky grew darker and not merely from a setting sun. The clouds pushed along by an unseen force, overhead, rapidly gathered in thick, grey-black clumps of augury, as an increasingly frigid wind blew steadily out of them, bending the sparse pale grass and bushes.  
The man with her looked up. “Storm’s coming…maybe snow. We’d better camp for the night, while we still can. Give me that bag,” he said, reaching toward her.  
Gratefully, she threw the burdensome thing toward him.  
From it, he withdrew a dark blue vinyl package, unfolded the whole, and pitched it back to her with the order, “Set that up.”  
“What’s this,” she asked, drawing out the material and inspecting its makeup, “a tent?”  
“Yeah, and you’d better hurry. That storm’ll be here soon.”  
She unfolded the item further, turning it this way and that, trying to figure out just how to set it up. This contraption had never been part of her training, and unbeknownst to her, Heinrich looked on with mild amusement.  
“Need help?” he asked. “It’s a TZ-138 model; you familiar with that one?”  
“Sure, I’ll get it. No problem.” There must be a valve or something to inflate the damn thing, she mused, somewhere. Finally, she located a part which looked right and under it found scribblings in an ornate foreign language of which she could make out only a few letters.

Heinrich craned his neck from where he squatted on the ground, busily assembling a catalytic heater and lantern before him. “You haven’t got that up, yet?” he asked, noting the determined  
look on the lovely trainee’s face and the way her body shivered from the increasing cold, as she  
tried to decipher the German blackletters.  
“I’ve got it. I’ve got it. Just seems a little stiff.”   
Push, pull squeeze, he watched, as she tried each method. At last, pulling on the valve resulted in a rush of air, and the tent began inflating. At her accomplishment, she turned to him with a breath-taking grin, but he quickly turned away. Soon, it would be fully formed, its baffles composing an A-framed, two-person shelter, a cozy meter-and-a half wide and two long. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her turn away with a tempting pout on her lips at being disregarded and viewed her more carefully as she pounded the alum stakes into the rings at each corner to stabilize the shelter. That task accomplished, she turned to him with a triumphant grin, one Heinrich ignored when he walked up, unzipped the door and placed the lantern and heater inside.  
“If you need to relieve yourself before we retire, best hurry,” he said after completing his task. “Temp’s dropping fast.”  
Yes, she could tell. Her light, City trimfits weren’t made for cold weather. Unlike hers, his uniform was made from the warmer thermknit, whose fibers expanded or contracted, tightening or loosening the weave of the fabric, depending on environmental changes. Throughout the day, she’d been warm, albeit slightly cool, as long as they were moving. Now, however, she was  
freezing. Taking his advice, she quickly ran behind some bushes and moments later rushed  
through the tent’s short opening on all fours, before zipping it closed behind her.  
The travel bag and his pouch were inside, as well as two thermsheets from the mazecar. Inside, the heater made it nice and warm. Outside, she could see through the small rear window screen a few flakes beginning to fall.  
“Better close that up, too,” Heinrich said. “Can’t afford to lose any heat. Leave a small vent for the heater exhaust, though.”  
After doing as ordered by her superior, Cassandra sat at the end of the tent on what she presumed was “her” side. Within touching distance, he sat cross-legged and handed her a wafer of food concentrate, which she began to nibble slowly, noticing he broke off small pieces with his fingers from his, before putting the morsels into his mouth. His more polished method made her feel decidedly uncivilized.  
“So,” he began, attention concentrated on the wafer he held, “I noticed both your parents were DS.”  
“Mm,” she answered. “What about yours?”  
Good parry, he thought. “Father.”  
“Where?”  
Another parry. “Amsterdam.”   
“So, you’re not German?”  
“Nor Dutch, either, if that’s what you’re thinking.” His turn to parry…and thrust. “So, why didn’t New City want you?” He looked up, pointedly. “And don’t tell me that nonsense about too many A-level trainees. It doesn’t wash, not with your background.”  
“Well,” she said, wiping the wafer crumbs from her fingers, “it’s the only explanation I was given. What’s so great about my background, anyway?”  
“Your stats. Better than most Full Operatives. Your parentage and pedigree are also outstanding. Most cities would keep you for just one of those.”  
“Obviously Dalworth didn’t.”  
“They’re paranoid fools!” he said with a snort and took a gulp of water from the single canteen in their supplies, then offered it to Cassandra.  
She refused with a single shake of her head.  
“Ever been in a paravane?” he asked.  
Again, she shook her head.  
“How’d you get from New City to Dalworth?”  
“’Car.”  
“Alone?” His eyes never left her face. “You expect me to believe they’d send a trainee with your background alone by ‘car?”  
“Well, it’s true!” she affirmed, jumping to her feet, remembering too late the tent’s low  
Height, and bumped her head on the top baffle. She promptly sat down.   
The sides of the tent now began buckling back and forth, in and out, from the gusting wind of the approaching storm, and pinging pellets of sleet attacked the shelter’s vinyl walls and roof. “You sure this thing’s strong enough?” she asked, looking about at the wild action of the roof and sides.  
“It’s been through worse.”  
Cassandra didn’t like the way Heinrich had been staring at her. He lay down, wrapping one of the thermsheets about him. “Better get some sleep,” he suggested, turning away. His words more of a command than a suggestion, they irritated her.  
With room to do little else, she stretched out beside him, struggling with her own thermsheet,  
and found herself surprised the thin air baffle of the tent floor made her “bed” quite comfortable.

 

Despite her previous misgivings, she slept well and the next morning awoke before Heinrich and unzipped the window flap to peer outside. Snow covered every dried blade of grass, bush and tree, and appeared quite deep. The wind still raged relentlessly. The flap reclosed, she crawled to the door and unfastened it, then once outside, wrapped the sheet snugly about her currently warm body and trudged through the crunching sound of snow with each step toward the same clump of bushes she visited the previous night. Except now, only the tops were visible. To ensure privacy, she must go farther into the trees. Before she could reach them, however, her left leg gave way, sinking abruptly into a brush-covered hollow.  
Damn luck! she cursed silently. Such words did little to remedy the situation. Her leg wouldn’t budge. Stretched on the cold powdery snow, she pulled at her leg then reached down to clear away what she could. But it was no good. A branch trapped her boot, and with each furtive yank, her ankle screamed in pain. Unluckier still was, when she’d fallen, her grip on the thermsheet had loosened and the dratted thing was now skipping gaily across the glistening white meadow, its silvery surface glinting in the sun’s early light.  
“Great!” she muttered, “thigh-deep in snow with a sprained ankle.” She’d rest a while then dig down and see if she could free what she knew might be a rapidly swelling joint. Maybe Heinrich would come outside to see to his own needs, hopefully soon. It was getting damn cold without that ‘sheet.  
“Damn you, whatever-you-are, come outside!” she hissed between chattering, clenched teeth. She wasn’t about to yell for him. Would die first. Hypothermia might claim her life, anyway, if she failed at freeing her leg. Again, she dug at the snow with bare hands, ones now turned a lovely shade of pink-red and determined her foot was trapped by a cross thread of three branches, not one. Looking back toward the tent, she willed Heinrich to come outside. PLEASE!!!

Heinrich awoke and noticed Cassandra’s absence at once but thought nothing of it until an hour had passed. Only then did it occur for him to look for. His bladder could wait.  
Outside, he spotted the small black and green clump in the distance and followed the rapidly disappearing footsteps toward the unmoving goal, his feet overstepping the impressions left by her DS-issued boots.   
Reaching her, he lifted her head, and she opened her lovely gray eyes, the whites of which were reddened from either cold, frustration, or weeping. Her lips had turned blue and her frigid fingers and hands were bright red.  
“Leg. Foot,” she managed and fell into a limp unconscious object in his arms.  
With her lowered to the ground, he dug furiously at the snow confining the trapped  
appendage and broke the capturing limbs with the butt of his Gun. Freed at last, he lifted her unresponsive body into his arms and returned down the path cleared previously by his legs and feet to the warmth of the tent.  
Her chilled form laid upon the baffled floor, he stripped off the wet, icy clothing she wore, turned up the setting on the catalytic heater and covered her with the last thermsheet and his own outer tunic. A cupful of water poured into the canteen’s attached dish and heated, he poured the hot liquid down her throat and then waited for her body to respond. Meanwhile, he examined her ankle.  
The frigid snow had kept the injury from swelling, but now in a warmer atmosphere, the tissue had enlarged to twice its normal size, making it impossible to assess if the joint was broken or merely sprained. Regardless, it looked bad, blackened from the injury and pale and deathly cold from the outside clime.  
Feeling helpless, he began muttering to himself, blaming New City, blaming Dalworth,  
blaming whoever or whatever else he could think of, including himself.

As Cassandra regained consciousness, he still muttered, and she became aware of her bare feet against his unclothed torso, his warm hands slowly caressing and stroking them to regain circulation. On opening her eyes, the first thing she noticed was that bare chest, sprinkled with white blond, curly hair. The second was the mixed anger and concern he felt, without betraying them on his face. Yes, she could feel those emotions, the same as she could his lack of fear during the earthquake, the same as she often knew what he would say before he spoke the words. Like now.  
“Stupid bitch! You could have died out there! Why didn’t you call for me?”  
She looked at him dumbly then kicked him with her good leg, throwing him backward, which jolted her bad ankle as she did.  
“Shit!” she screamed through clenched teeth and clutched her throbbing ankle. Only then did Cassandra realize she was completely nude under the thin thermsheet, topped for extra warmth by his tunic. A quick peek under the thermsheet confirmed her suspicion.  
“You undressed me? How dare you! Where are my clothes?”  
He gestured from his half-sprawled position on the floor to the other side of the tent where they hung dripping. “Couldn’t have you dying of hypothermia, could I?” Now he started laughing. “Next time, I’ll let you freeze.”   
Because of the damned man’s behavior, she threw his tunic at him, and he caught it in midair.  
“Want to throw the sheet, too?” he said with a smirk.  
She started to, then thought better of it, pulling it higher to cover her nakedness.  
“So, don’t thank me for saving your life and possibly losing us another day or more to nursemaid you.”  
“I don’t need nurse-maiding. Bandage this up and fix me a crutch, so we can get going.”  
“Morning’s nearly gone. We can’t leave anyway. Storm’s still raging.”  
“Hah, hah!” she rejoined. “Wasn’t my fault, after all.”  
He pulled his tunic back on and curled up alongside her. “Better keep that leg elevated.”  
###  
By next morning, the ankle was hot and more swollen, with red streaks of possible infection flaring up her calf muscle. Burning with fever, Cassandra spent most of the night in and out of consciousness and as now otally unarousable. Heinrich was desperate. He fumbled in his  
travel pouch and pulled out a small radio, extending the antenna its full length and plugged in  
the small earphone, before punching in a seven-number code and waiting for the acknowledging beep.  
Finally, it came, and he said, “Emergency situation… Yes, the trainee. Possibly broken ankle or leg, going bad. No, I can’t elaborate! Yes, I know. Damn it, I need her lifted out of here, NOW. No, I can’t wait. Now! To Hell with regulations. NOW! Or you’ll have me to deal with if you don’t. I mean now.”  
The conversation ended and Heinrich’s ire elevated from its normal steadily minded sub-boil, they promised an airlift in one, two hours at the outside. Even though they disliked taking an outsider to their top secret medical facility, they had little choice. Either that or lose a very valuable member of their future gene pool.

“Jonathan, we’ve found her!”   
The Sandman raced to a secure line to receive Ballard’s transmission. “Where?”  
“Thinker Med Facility near old St. Louis Dome. Our double agent there saw her brought in this morning.”  
“Status?”  
“Multiple ankle fractures, some frostbite.”   
“By herself? No, of course not. Who?”  
“Operative/Thinker agent name of Heinrich Seven. They were on their way to Heidelberg Dome."  
“A Thinker agent. What have we got on him, Blair?” Jonathan asked the man at the next console, who’d already punched in the name.  
“Aliases: Bjorn Six, Bertold Three, Mulich Four, Sigfrid Two, Carthage Four, Reinhold Five, Sanders Two, Hauptman Two, Raunaulf Three. Done time at Amsterdam, Berlin, Stockholm, Moscow domes in Europe, Montreal, Nome, Buenos Aires, Portland, Shreveport, Dalworth, and Stockton Domes in Western Hemisphere. Thinker-agent for twenty-five years. Real age estimated forty-two, possibly younger. Nothing known of actual background. Father, mother unknown. Dome of origin, unknown. First name appears as Anders Two in Amsterdam, 2264, Green Two.”  
“You said Shreveport? What year?” Jonathan asked.  
“2295.”  
“Visual?”  
“Last known appearance?”  
“Yes,” Jonathan said slowly. When the image came into focus on the vid-screen he said, “I know him. Ballard, when does Cassandra get released?”  
“Three days to a week.”  
“I think it’s time Darnell Seven came out of retirement.”


	3. Chapter 3

## Chapter Three

     The Great Plains Medical Facility was possibly the finest in what remained of the North American Continent. Because it was run directly under the authority of the Thinker, the surgeons and other medical personnel consisted of over-thirties med-techs, trained and screened specifically for above average abilities. Their operating and treatment rooms boasted the most sophisticated and advanced machines to be found anywhere, so Cassandra’s ankle was mere child’s play for their lasers and anodyne rays, incised, suctioned, bones aligned, knitted and incision closed all in a matter of minutes. But the infection was the more life-threatening force than the ankle itself and the reason for her continued confinement, while their machines bombarded her body with antibiotics and anti-inflammatories. Two days more she lay unconscious in the autobed until regaining a semblance of normalcy and finally awoke.

     Heinrich sat beside her bed, hands clasping one of hers as he watched the fluttering of her eyelids and gazed once more on the silvery-gray of her mesmerizing eyes.

     “Hey, there, sleepyhead.”

     She looked lazily in his direction and mumbled, “Go to Hell,” then shut her eyes. When she turned to her side, her hand pulled out of his, and she curled up more compactly.

     “Enjoy it while you can. We leave in two more days.”

     She groaned in response to this news and covered her head with a pillow.

     “You’ll have to leave now, Sandman,” said a female tech, entering with a scanner in her hand. With the other hand, she held open the door, and as soon as he left and she was certain he was out of earshot, went quickly to the bed and shook the patient.

     “Cassandra, wake!”

     “Don’t wanna.”

     “Cassandra, look at me!”

    The woman so addressed lifted the corner of the pillow enough to expose one eye then sat bolt upright. “Connie?”

    The tech put a finger to her lips. “Ssh. Walls have ears.” She sat on the bed’s edge, and they hugged quickly.

     “So, this is where you’ve been,” whispered Cassandra.

     “And I see you won over your parents, at long last.”

     Cassandra nodded then gestured with her head toward the door, a quizzical expression on her face.

     “Him?” Connie responded. “You don’t know?”

     Cassandra shook her head.

     “Very special, very important. Top clearance. Gets whatever he wants.”

     “What else do you know about him?”

     Connie squeezed the hand of her longtime Sanctuary friend. “That’s about it. He shows up once, twice a year, stays a week, and then he’s gone. Spends most of his time in the underground rooms. That’s where they keep all the top-secret projects. I’ve been here two years and don’t know anyone who’s cleared, except him.”

      Connie passed the scanner she held over Cassandra’s body. “Your temp’s stable. That’s good. Ankle looks good, too. Take some time for the discoloration to fade, though. You’re lucky you didn’t lose your toes to frostbite. I overheard the doctors saying if Heinrich hadn’t put your toes in his mouth and sucked on them to bring them back to a normal temperature and regain circulation, you would have.”

     “He sucked my toes?” Cassandra sat up quickly at the shock, too quickly, and dizzy from the sudden movement she laid back down.

     “Yes, he did. Too bad you were unconscious. I wouldn’t mind him sucking my toes!” her friend said with a tooth baring grin.

     “I shudder to think of it, although the idea isn’t totally repugnant.” Cassandra briefly imagined the moist warmth of his mouth on her shorter than normal toes and the sucking sensation as he brought them back to life. _Yes_ , she said, silently agreeing with Connie. The idea wasn’t unpleasant at all.

     “There’s more you should know,” said her long-time friend. “He hasn’t left your bedside except for a few hours since you arrived. Several times when I passed by, I saw him stroking your hair or cheek, even bending to kiss your forehead if he had to leave. Mark my words, Cass, he cares for you.”

     “Connie…?” she asked, needing more information.

     “Gotta go,” her friend said rising abruptly, “he’ll be back any minute,” and she was gone before Cassandra could blink.

 

     Darnell Seven, with his icy blue eyes and swarthy reddish tinged skin, was a formidable- appearing ally. Shoulder length, straight jet hair swung as his muscular body guided a massive arm to push a sniveling trainee out of his way. He could also be a formidable enemy. Today, he was the latter. Gun slung low on the hip of a sleek, shiny black skinsuit, one couldn’t help but notice this was a most unusual Sandman, one Heidelberg Dome DS had never seen the like of before. He spoke flawless German but only when necessary.

     “ _Wo ist Heinrich?”_ he demanded, hands braced on the Primary’s desk after reaching HQ.

 “ _Er ist nicht heir. Amerika._ ” The Primary was not easily intimidated by large, muscle-bound types, despite the unfavorable comparison of his own body size and mass.

     “ _Wann erwarten Sie ihm_?”

     “ _Zwei tagen, Herr Sandman_.”

      “ _Wenn er kommt, sag ihm, das Herr Darnell Sieben ist hier—aus Shreveport—Amerika_ ,” he ended with a sneer.

     “So,” the Primary responded, calmly, in English, “you two know each other?”

     Darnell answered with a smirk. “You could say that.”

     “ _Sehr gut_. Then you must be our guest, in the meantime. Please to fashion your behavior as you’d expect of us as a guest in your country. _Wenn Heinrich kommt, erzablich es ihm_. ”

 

     The MedFac ‘vane had taken them directly to a small airport outside Providence, Rhode Island. Heinrich, deciding to waste no further time in returning to Heidelberg, had ordered his own paravane—a much larger one than that used by Medfac—to be fueled and waiting, upon their arrival, and the workers there had transferred their equipment and belongings from one ‘vane to the other.

     As Cassandra climbed in, she noticed this ‘vane possessed a large cargo area at the rear and two, fold down type benches, big enough to double as sleep platforms. Heinrich had taken little time and currently sat at the controls, warming up the engine and checking all the ‘vane’s vitals prior to take off.

     Still feeling a bit feeble, Cassandra wobbled her way to the front and took the seat next to Heinrich, snapped the harness over herself and adjusted the fastenings.

     “Thought you said you’d never been in a ‘vane before.”

     “I watched on the one over to see what they did. Couldn’t have you wasting any more time, teaching me, could we?”

     “Hmm,” was all he said in reply, pulling back on the control stick, resulting in the aircraft reaching into the air. Another control pushed forward, the ‘vane moved onward, slowly at first then more rapidly until the rippling waves of the Atlantic Ocean provided the only scenery beneath them.

     Reaching cruising altitude, Heinrich switched a toggle marked, “Auto,” unsnapped his harness and started toward the back of the aircraft, gesturing Cassandra to follow. At the back he pulled down a bench and sat on it, indicating she do likewise opposite him.

     “We need to talk. No more bullshit stories, no more lies. Just the truth.”

     “What do you mean?” she replied, lowering his eyes and appearing as innocent as a little child.

     “I mean, I took a big chance breaking security to transport you to that medfac. I showed my trust in you, trust it’s time you return. We can’t go on lying to each other, Cassandra. It’s truth time.”

     “Truth time?” she said, still all innocence.

     “Yes. I ask you a question; you answer truthfully. Then you ask me a question, and I answer truthfully. It’s really quite simple.”

     “Any question? What if I’m not ready to tell you the truth?”

     “Then we start with little truths and build up to the big ones, any question you want.”

     “Who goes first?”

     “Okay, I will. Little truth: what is your real name?”

     “Cassandra.”

     He nodded. “Your turn.”

     “What’s your real name?”

     He grinned. “The original one? Olsen. Now, my turn. Where are you from?”

     “That’s a big truth. Ask another question.”

     “All right, let me put it this way. I did some research at the Thinker terminal in Medfac. Thinker keeps lots of records, real ones, not those fancied up vitals for the cities, full of lies and deceit, but details of what actually happened in the past. For instance, I know your grandmother, Vera Three, was integrated into the what is now New City population by the Sandman named Francis Seven, and designated as Indefinite in 2274. No previous record of her exists. I know your mother, Vera Four was her clone and integrated as Indefinite by Francis Eight, along with another Vera Three offspring named Ballard Two, also a member of DS. I know, as well, no mazecars were used between Dalworth and New City, the day you arrived in Dalworth…on any route. And, strangely enough, no records exist of any Cassandra Three anywhere. In other words, everything you’ve told me, except your name, is a lie!”

     During this disclosure of facts, Cassandra shrank with each new bit of evidence against her story. She was surprised he hadn’t confronted her with more lies.

    “So, where are you from?” he asked again.

     “Sanctuary,” she answered contritely, head down and voice barely above a whisper.

     “Sanctuary?” he asked, mildly amused, as though he still didn’t believe her. But she was nodding her head, slowly, in affirmation. This action changed his expression to a more serious one, because it changed things.

     Head down and fingers rubbing his forehead in thought, he mumbled to himself, something like, “did it.”

     “My turn now,” she said, interrupting his musings.

     “Yeah, sure.” Obviously, his own thoughts still disturbed him. “What did you mean, when you said, ‘We don’t terminate at thirty’?”

     _Nope, she hadn’t forgotten,_ she detected in his brain. _Memory like a steel trap, that’s what!_ He looked up, wearily meeting her piercing gray eyes. “European DS get another five years…that’s automatic.”

     “That’s not what you meant, or you wouldn’t have clammed up so fast when I asked before. Truth time, remember?”

     “All right, all right,” he answered slowly. “Truth: guess you know by now I’m a Thinker-agent.”

     “Yes. So?”

     “A Thinker-agent’s clock never goes black, that’s why we are moved around so much: new cities, new identities, sometimes even new faces and bodies.”

     “You said, ‘we’.”

     “All Thinker-agents.”

     “No, that’s not what you meant.”

     He exhaled a lungful of air and admitted, “You’re right. I didn’t.” Heinrich leaned back against the ‘vane’s metallic hull. “I meant you, too. Thinker want you as his next agent.”

     “Me?  Why?”

     Heinrich shook his head. “I thought you were so smart, shouldn’t have to ask. Can’t you see?”

     “My background?

     He nodded, and Cassandra began searching her mind. “Just who or what is Thinker?”

     “A huge, all-knowing computer,” he began, relaxed, eyes closed, “originally programmed by a man named Chaney Moon, they say.” He sighed again and paused. “They also say additional modifications and programing were done by someone around 2256, by a Sandman.” He opened his eyes, looked at her then added. “I don’t know about the first but do know about the second.” His eyes held her gray ones, as he paused once more, searching that soft, innocent face for something familiar from long ago. He finally beheld it in the way she furrowed her brow, the way she listened undistracted. “I was there, Cassandra.”      Her dark brows lifted slightly—the reaction he’d expected, considering.

     “Game’s over,” he said, rising.

     She jumped up and grabbed his arm before he could reach the console. “No, wait. You can’t

end it like that.” As soon as she touched him, she sensed his pain in merely thinking of the past.

      “Why? You want a name, is that it?” He grinned, taking her pale, delicate hand. “Ballard Two. That was his name.” He released her and started forward again, this time successfully

reaching his command chair.

     Meanwhile, she stood in the space behind him and almost whispered, “But you said you were there.”

     “Of course,” he replied. “I’m his son.”

     She sat heavily in the opposite chair, staring at him.

     “Fasten up,” he ordered, buckling his own harness but could tell by the dazed look on her face

she had more questions. She did.

     “If you’re Ballard Two’s son, why is your real name Olsen?”

     “You don’t miss a thing, do you? All right, I should have been Ballard Three, except I was born to an Outsider he met briefly. For six years, he never knew I existed, until my mother died, and her people found him at Crazy Horse.”

     “Your mother was a gypsy?”

     “No, a successful Runner.”

     “But all females are sterilized at the age of eleven, so how…?”

    “A small group of these Runners, with Ballard’s help, made it Outside, when he was a new operative, set up a village of sorts and relied on him for the few supplies they needed. Two or three times a year, he’d bring new members, too. After a period of six years, the chemicals within their bodies—both men and women—wore off and they became fertile.”

     “Then this was the first Sanctuary?”

     Heinrich nodded. “Of course, Father always harbored ideas of a safer one, where no one could find them once there. I lost touch with him when old enough for my first city assignment, so never knew if he succeeded or not.”

    “Which means you don’t know what happened to him.”

     He looked at her pointedly. “Oh, I know. Thinker kept me informed whenever I cared enough to check.”

     “Then why didn’t you know about my Sanctuary?”

     Heinrich looked back at the console and typed in a course correction. “Maybe he didn’t want Thinker to know everything.”

     “But you said Thinker knows everything.

     A smile broadened Heinrich's lips. “Not everything. And remember this: Thinker can only know whatever is fed into Central Computer, by voice or monitor. Thinker has Listeners everywhere: quads, DSHQ, all the shops, all the malls, the ‘cars and ‘vanes. Without the Listeners, Thinker is deaf and blind.”

    “You mean, it’s listening now?”

     Heinrich reached into his utility pouch and brought out a handful of Listener bugs. “Nope.”

He replaced them and continued. “So, if you don’t want Thinker to know something, hunt out the bugs and remove them or, barring that, turn on something loud to mask what you say. And, as you’ve doubtless been taught, don’t put in or say anything to Computer you don’t want recorded for posterity. Understand?”

     “Yes,” she answered, somewhat overwhelmed.

    He smiled again and looked her over. “Yeah, you’ll do all right. Get you ‘quipped and blocked, and you’ll fit right in with all the rest.”

     “Blocked?”

     “Yeah, you know…assigned. Course Comp will want you ‘pregged’ as soon as possible.”

     “Pregged?”

     Cassandra's confused mind was still working out the word ‘blocked’ when he answered, “Mmm. Impregnated _.”_

     “Impregnated! They don’t _in vitro_?”

     “Nope,” he said, returning his attention to the console readouts. “They remove the embryo and place it in a growth medium at fourteen weeks.”

    “Well, Comp will just have to wait. That’s all I can say!”

     Heinrich’s new grin of amusement irritated her. “Why?” he asked.

     Cassandra’s lips broadened in a smirk of victory. “Because I was given a six-month contraceptive injection before arriving. That’s why!”

     “Guess I’ll have to try harder then,” he said, laughing.

     “You?”

     “Yeah, I was given the assignment. Does that disturb you?”

     Cassandra stared at him, mouth agape. She knew life on this planet as an agent would entail sex, often meaningless sex, but this revelation disturbed her entire concept of the meaning. This man, this gorgeous man would be having sex with her. Little doubt existed in her mind regarding their mutual attraction, but the thought of having sex with him disturbed her.

     “Do I have a choice?” she voiced at last.

     “No more than you have a choice about anything Thinker wants,” he answered more seriously. “You’d best get some sleep. We’ll arrive in a few hours.”

 

     Heidelberg was unlike any other place Cassandra had seen except for some drawings, paintings or holos in the history tapes. Lying deep in a thick forest of evergreen trees along the Neckar River, the old city-fortress’s walls had been reconstructed and the ancient castle itself rebuilt and restore, where the central offices of DS Headquarters was housed. Built of red sandstone, the walls dominated the city, standing high on a hill. Nearby, lay the equally ancient Reprecht-Karl University, the older part housing classrooms for DS, the newer one for citizens of Heidelberg. The entire city gave Cassandra a feeling of stepping into the past. Tall narrow buildings flanked either side of the narrow streets only a few meters wide, bearing various guild signs from medieval days. On the top floor of each building a pulley gable jutted, once and possibly still, the only means of moving large objects from outside to inside.

     Within these buildings, Heinrich assured her, existed more modern accommodations, although the Germans were proud of their past…their roots…and could never totally abandon the apparent heritage of the old city. To further protect this historic town, a dome covered its entirety, and this one-thousand-year-old section allowed only the specially privileged to live there.

     All around her, Cassandra had never seen so many colors of flowers, not even in Sanctuary’s greenhouse: bright reds, yellows, pinks, blues and white in plentitude on nearly every street, in addition to fresh vegetables and bread, their just baked scent enticing her nose and causing her stomach to grumble. There were also smoked meat shops, exuding their hypnotic aromas at every bend. These sights seemed untouched by the Little War, and in fact, that catastrophic event barely had. Here, no food or housing shortages existed, or other lack of human need. In direct contradiction of the city’s ancient past, Heidelberg in its plentitude of basic needs was as wonderful, if not better than New City or some others in their plethora of hedonistic delights.

    As Cassandra and Heinrich made their way along the cobblestoned streets of this city, another

followed at a discreet distance in the shadows, slipping silently from one dark spot to another, creeping gradually closer and closer to the couple, until he could almost reach out and touch them.

     Upon approaching the old castle which sat on steep Burgweg or Fortress Way, Cassandra noticed its resemblance to the building outlined on the city shield of Heinrich’s tunic. A block short of their destination, Heinrich whirled, reaching into the shadow of a doorway they’d just passed, and dragged out a Green, his arm now twisted behind him by the Sandman’s massive hand.

     “Why were you following us, _mein Freund_?”

     “Sandman told me,” the Green grunted, teeth clenched in pain.

     Heinrich jerked the arm upward, causing more. “What Sandman?”

     “Dark-skinned, strange uniform. Didn’t give his name.”

     “Why’d he have you follow us?”

     “To look at _Fräulein_ Sandman _._ See where you went.”

     “Quite obvious where we’re going, isn’t it? As for the _Fraulein_ , you’ve seen her, _ja_? So, go and tell your Sandman. And, if I ever see you again, you’ll not live to see Lastday. _Verstehen Sie?”_ "

     “ _Ja, ja, mein Herr_.”

     Heinrich pushed the man away and watched as he stumbled then ran off down Burgweg. Taking Cassandra’s arm, they continued to the castle wall, through the huge Gun Park and its terraced gardens, then across the bridge and water-filled moat to the castle courtyard. Within the courtyard, Heinrich pointed out some of the buildings, which dated back to the time of the great Charlemagne. Once inside the castle, they turned left to the Primary’s office on the top floor of the tower and its twenty-five-foot thick walls. Upon their arrival at the anteroom, Heinrich merely nodded to the Operative out front and went in.

     “ _Darf ich Fräulein Cassandra Drei, mein Herr Primary_?”

     “ _Ja_ ,” the slight man said, rising. “ _Ach du Leiber_! You were right about her.” The Primary extended his hand to Cassandra and brushed his lips to the back of her hand. “ _Willkommen, Fräulein, an Heidelberg_.”

     Heinrich whispered the appropriate response in her ear, and she responded, “ _Danke, mein Herr Primary_.”

     “ _Sehr gut_! Heinrich, take her to CC for processing then room assignment.

     The addressed Operative leaned across the desk, whispering, “Didn’t Gottlieb Ninety go Lastday before I left? Have his quarters been reassigned?”

     “ _Nein. Warum?_ Are you thinking…her, there?” He smiled. “Well, fast work, my friend. Very well. I’ll give CC my okay. Consider it done. _Gutten tag_.”

 

     CC was located in the old cellars of Castle Heidelberg, the famous fifty-five-thousand-gallon wooden wine cask built in 1751 still standing at its center. A single chair, much like the ones Cassandra had learned about in her training, sat at the end of the room, facing a blue screen. Heinrich bid her sit in the chair, then activated CC by placing his palm on a scanner. Instead of the voice being in German, as she expected, this CC spoke in English.

     “PURPOSE?”

     “Integration: Trainee, A-Level, Cassandra Three, to City DS force.”

     “CLASSIFICATION?”

     “Red One. Indefinite.”

     “PROCEED FOR IMPLANTATION.”

     Heinrich eased Cassandra’s head back into the brackets and bent to her ear, whispering, “Relax, it only takes a second.

     A very painful second, as a searing blue laser penetrated the flesh of her tender right temple.

 

     As they departed CC, a trainee ran up to Heinrich, handed him a note and left. The Sandman unfolded it slowly then read it. “From the Primary,” he informed Cassandra. “So!” He crumbled the paper in his hand and tossed it into a nearby receptacle.

     “Bad news?” she asked, placing a hand on his tensed arm.

     “ _Nein, ist nichts. Kommen!_ ”

 

     At her new apartment, Heinrich bade Cassandra relax after pointing out the food dispenser, uniform and clothing dispensers and other amenities.

     “I must be gone three or four hours.”

     “You’ll be back, won’t you?” she asked, her gray eyes searching his with what seemed desperation.

     He nodded in answer, took her hands between his and gripped them firmly then released them and left.

 

     On his way to the old _Fräuenzimmer,_ which once housed the ladies of the court but now acted as a dorm for the Sandmen’s harems, as part of the Regeneration complex, Heinrich thought of other things besides his current assignment. The note had included two bits of information. One, report to RegCom for monthly duties. Two, Darnell Seven was in town and looking for him.

     Darnell, here! But why? Almost seven years had passed since he’d last seen the Operative in Shreveport. Darnell was another, like himself, a special agent of Thinker, always moving from city to city, never dying, eternally Indefinite. His last identity in Shreveport had him down as part Mescalero Apache, dome of origin Ruidoso Dome in old Arizona Territory. His steely good looks had the femflesh quivering in every city he visited. But he’d not shown interest in any of them. He liked women, it was just he had no time for them. More important things occupied his attentions. Women existed at the bottom of the list.

     Definitely not ruled by his hormones, Heinrich thoughts occupied his mind as the techs injected him with massive doses of testosterone. “How many today?”  he asked the tech.

     “Only seven, all ripe. You’ll probably never see them again.”

     “How many is that, total, if these take?”

     “Twenty-five out of your harem. Five more next month, and that’s the lot before you go Lastday. Don’t know why you Sandmen complain so much. I wouldn’t mind having a harem of thirty women waiting for me to pleasure them.”

     “You would if Computer picked them, not you,” Heinrich said, rubbing his arm at the injection site.

     “They look good to me.”

     “If you like blonds.” Heinrich rose and walked toward the huge double, wooden doors at the end of the room. “I hate blonds,” he finished straightening and entering the next room, the doors banging resoundingly behind him.

 

     Darnell’s stoolie had reported back that the big Sandman and the _Ausländer_ had arrived in Heidelberg.

     “Where are they now?”

     The youth jerked his head toward the castle. “The big one is there; the woman in apartment near the market.”

     “ _Gut_. Go now!” Darnell ordered, flipping the boy a golden ring.

     The youth scurried off, clutching his prize, and the Sandman gazed up toward the red castle walls.

 

     Hours later, the blond Sandman passed the last of the castle gates and making his way back to Cassandra’s apartment. The testosterone had honed every nerve in his body to a sharp edge, and the first person to so much as nod in his direction he would most likely deck. Therefore, it was all he could do to refrain from landing a haymaker on the Sandman who approached him from a dark alley.

     “Psst! Here!”

     Heinrich looked down the inky pathway and could discern only the other’s eyes in the dimness a few feet away. “ _Wo bist du_?”

     “Darnell, stupid.”

     “Darnell. Ja, they told me you were here, but why?”

     The dark Sandman gestured him into the alleyway. “Good to see you, too.”

     “Sorry, I’ve just come from RegCom. My hormones are literally shrieking.”  

     “Seven years.”

     “ _Ja_. Seems longer.” Heinrich nodded at the other’s uniform. “Still working, I see.”

     “In a way, and only when necessary. You know?”

     “Hmm, yes. What brings you here?”

     “A certain Sandlady.”

     “There are many Sandladies here. Which one?”

     “Cassandra Three.”

     Heinrich grew suddenly defensive at the name of the one he considered “his” Sandlady. “Is Impossible. No! You can have no interest in her. Thinker has assigned—”

     Darnell put his hand on the other’s shoulder. “I’m here to merely observe, my friend.”

     “Ah, I see. So, you want to see her?”

     “She all right?”

     “Yes, recovering quite well. Much better here than Dalworth.”

     “It would serve no purpose for me to see her. You’re going to her now?”

     Heinrich nodded.

     “Good. Guard her well.”

     “You know I will.”

     “I’ll be watching to make sure.”

     “I’m certain you will.”

     They clasped hands firmly, each sealing the unspoken bargain with a stern smile and slight nod before Darnell disappeared soundlessly into the alley’s chill darkness.

     The remainder of the way back, Heinrich’s overload of hormones caused him to fantasize one scheme after another of what he would do on his return to her rooms. He would demand she strip before him then would carry her, unprotestingly, to the bed, where he’d make love to her over and over again, throughout the remaining day and night. No, he would rip the clothes from her and take her on the carpeted floor.

     When he arrived, she laid curled up like a small child, asleep on the antique oaken bed. As he gently awoke her, she stirred, rolling over to look at him. Her arms reached out, and he took them, enfolding her soft body against his, stroking her hair. Then his lips met hers, softly, gently at first, then more urgently, while his hands became roaming warlords of soft curving places.

     Coming to his senses, he released her, breath ragged, mouth throbbing, and heart racing, then pushed her back to the bed. He regarded her questioning eyes, the lips slightly puffy and red from their passionate embrace.

     “I’m sorry,” he said, “I…my…my unit’s next door.” He motioned with his head to the adjoining doors. I’ll see you in the morning.” Then he rose, striding quickly across the room.

     “No! Please don’t go,” she called after him.

     “It’s no good,” he hissed back over his shoulder. The doors slammed behind him and then there was only silence.

     Cassandra touched her still tender lips. _What kind of man is this?_ she wondered.

 

     Darnell had always liked the feel of softly falling snow on his face and the way it crunched underfoot when you walked. Snug in their dome-enclosed, temperature-regulated city, the residents of Heidelberg ignored winter in the Neckar Valley and its wonders. A few hardy souls who chose to remain Outside the domes, still lived a normal life in one or more of the medieval villages nearby, the same as their ancestors hundreds of years earlier. This is where the strange Sandman had gone as well.

     He walked the cobblestoned streets, snowflakes falling in silent splendor, highlighted only by the yellow glow of the gas street lamps at each corner, as he made his way down to the market square. The sound of laughter and old-time music came from the Ratskeller nearby, and it was there he headed, taking the steep steps to the cellar of the ancient town hall.

     As he opened the heavy door, the blast of frigid air rushing in caused every eye in the place to turn as one in his direction, and by the time the door closed behind Darnell, the music also died. It was as if each person held his breath in anticipation of a Runner kill. Darnell smirked, walking in utter silence to the bar, where he ordered “ _Ein Bier_.” Only then did the villagers turn back to each other, whispering, speculating.

     He certainly did live in Heidelberg. His strange clothing and Gun shouted, _Ausländer…foreigner! Why was he here?_ More time passed as the Sandman drank almost half the stein of foamy brew before the music renewed and a more jovial mood presided.

     He turned to the bartender, placing five International Credits on the counter.

     “ _Wo ist ein Hotel_?”

     “ _Weiter stree, links_.”

     “ _Danke_.” Darnell knew they crowd was glad to see him go and chuckled as he closed the door, enveloping himself once in the brisk air of winter.

     The hotel wasn’t far, and he found a room quite to his liking. Yes, there was the thick eiderdown comforter, the log blazing in the stone fireplace and wooden carvings on the wall. He paid the woman, latched the door behind her, pulled a thickly padded chair closer to the fire, and then waited.

 

     Cassandra had been unable to sleep. Heinrich’s action of a few hours earlier plagued her every thought, keying her to a near fever of doubts and confusion. Was he able to sleep? she wondered. She’d heard nothing from his unit.

     After slipping from bed, wearing only her sleepshift, she tiptoed across the plush carpet to the door adjoining their apartments. An ear pressed against its warm wood, she listened. Nothing. Her hand poised indecisively over the handle, she touched it, retreated, then more resolutely dropped it again, pushing the lever like handle down and slowly opened the door.

     A thunderous noise came from behind it—an animal noise more fearsome than any she’d known, and the door slammed shut. Before she could latch it against the monster, it opened again.

     “What are you doing? Max, down. Quiet!” It was Heinrich, a very perturbed Heinrich, brow wrinkled, as behind him, the huge, coal black eyes danced devilishly in a gigantic black head, now lying saucer-sized brown paws beside its master.

      Cassandra approached the blond German, cautiously. “I couldn’t sleep,” she explained.

     The man’s brow was still furrowed from the disturbance.

     “Come in.”

     She looked at the black and tan massive canine beside him, and he ordered it to a corner, where it obediently trotted, circled, then lay down once more, eyes rolled up apologetically for his behavior.

     When Cassandra seemed hesitant to enter, still, he said, “He won’t hurt you, except on my command. Sit down somewhere; you’re making me nervous and him, too.”

     She chose the closest piece of furniture: his bed.

     He now stood before her, looking down, accusingly. “Well?”

     “I couldn’t sleep.”

     “You said that before.”

     “I guess….I guess I’m no longer…no longer…”

     “Spit it out!”

     She flinched at his harsh words and began weeping. “I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be close to…someone.”

     “Someone?”

     Cassandra looked up at Heinrich, eyes red and displaying the anger she felt, because he made her spill her guts. “Yes, someone. You, okay. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

     He walked away then turned, regarding her, rubbing his chin in indecision. Max had come up to the woman, whining and cocking his head back and forth in curiosity at the strange human sound. Then the monstrous beast reached out his tongue and licked the tears from the back of her hand where it lay in her lap.

     “He likes you.”

     Cassandra shuddered.

     “ _Mein Got_ , woman, he’s only a dog. You act like you’ve never seen one before.”

     “I haven’t.”

     “Say, hi, Max.”

     The beast reached out a brown paw, mouth gaped and panting in a doggie smile.

     “Go ahead; take it,” said Heinrich.

     She reached out her hand, and Max put his paw into it. As she held it more firmly to shake it as one would a human’s, laughing at the dog’s response, it leaned to the side, head tilted, nearly laughing itself.

     “A dog?”

    “Mmm,” was Heinrich’s only reply. Max had left and gone to stand behind the Sandman, nudging him closer to his new friend. Heinrich gave up and sat on the bed beside Cassandra, holding her.

     “I’m sorry.  For everything.”

     “Sorry?”

     “Mmm. Earlier.” He kissed her briefly, almost shyly.

     She gazed up at him. “Don’t you want to have sex with me?”

     He laughed. “Yes, very much.”

     “Then why?”

     He put his fingers to her lips. “Not the right time.”

     Max jumped onto the bed and pushed his head between them, and Heinrich scratched his soft ears and laughed again. “He’s not used to sharing me.”

     Cassandra regarded the dog, and began stroking his thick black fur. “I wouldn’t share you either.”

Realizing what she’d said and the inappropriate meaning, she mumbled her excuses to leave and headed toward the door, but Max blocked her escape.

     “It seems Max wants you to stay,” she heard. Indeed, the big Rottweiler had taken the fabric of her sleep shift in his teeth and proceeded to drag her to the bed.

     With little choice left, Cassandra went along, minus any resistance, and found herself, not only pushed against the bed’s edge but nudged to climb into it, where Heinrich lifted the covers on that side and she edged beneath them. Her position seeming what Max desired, he vaulted onto the bed and insinuated his black body between the two humans, resting his head on Cassandra’s blanket-covered thigh.

     “Don’t worry,” said Heinrich, “Max will keep you safe from me or my hormonal tendencies.

     Each ensuing night, Max again made his wants clear, and Cassandra had to admit, she found comfort in sharing a bed with the godlike Viking DS operative and the warmth of the huge beast separating them.

 

 

     


	4. Chapter 4

## Chapter Four

     The hour was early, two past midnight. Darnell took out his Follower and a small radio devise which he plugged into one side of it. “Location Cassandra Three, Heinrich Seven,” he requested. As he thought, they were together. Well, he’d have to take a chance. He pressed “Recall” on the radio.

     Within seconds, a probe within Cassandra’s brain awakened her and renewed her memory. She was being summoned. Creeping as quietly as possible from the bed, she shushed a warning to Max, who raised his head from where he lay at the foot, then made her way to her own unit.

     Inside, she plugged in her own radio to her Follower, watched the contact’s coordinates triangulate, then dressed quickly and took the devise with her as she left.

 

     The place was easy enough to find, and she’d not encountered a single soul as she made her way from her unit, then outside the domes, and through the nearby village. Climbing the narrow, stone staircase, she arrived outside the contact’s room and knocked softly.

     “Come,” said a gruff voice within.

     Cassandra turned the handle and entered cautiously, Gun drawn halfway. Inside, a dark figure sat in a chair facing her, but the room was pitch black except for the faint glow of embers in the hearth.

     “Come closer!” the figure ordered.

     She took another step.

     “The cock crows early in the morning,” the other said.

     “But only down on the farm,” Cassandra countered.

     “So, Cassandra Three, we’ve had a tough time finding you.”

     She tucked her head, submissively. “Much has happened since Dalworth.”

     “Speak freely. The room’s clean.”

     She raised her head. “Dalworth didn’t want me; Heidelberg did. That’s about the size of it.”

     “And Heinrich?”

     “He’s a Thinker-agent. Do we have anything on him?”

     “Some. What do you know about him?”

     “He’s Ballard Two’s son.”

     “That, we did not know. Anymore?”

      “Not really. Can I ask a question?”

     “Depends.”

     “Are you Meldanan?”

     “Yes. Why?”

     Cassandra shifted her weight, fidgeting with her hand on her uniform tunic’s hem. “Strange things have been happening to me. I feel the Humans’ emotions when I touch them. I know what they’re thinking, what they’re going to say. Is this true of all Meldanans? I’ve never experienced it until now.”

     “Yes, to some extent. It is why we seldom touch one another or else learn to block out such contacts or mask our own. Your grandmother was particularly sensitive to such things. Her control amounted to nothing less than phenomenal.”

     “But it’s so unnerving.”

     “You shall learn to control the ability, in time. Be patient. Is there anything else you would care to discuss?”

     “Yes. I’ve read the regulations governing ‘emotional attachments’ to subjects. Does it apply to other agents, as well?”

     “Thinker-agents, you mean?”

     “Well, yes.”

      “I don’t believe the problem has arisen in the past. Our contact with Thinker-agents has been quite scant to date. Without consulting Council, I would say use your best judgement, consider the consequences, and evaluate the relationship in that context.”

     Cassandra stared at the cold wooden floor, uneasily, as he spoke.

     “Is there something else?” the stranger asked.

     “Yes,” she murmured.

     “Well, what is it?”

     “Thinker wants me as its next agent.”

     “Well, that is certainly unexpected.” The man’s voice seemed calm, but Cassandra detected a hint of distress in the tone. “I shall report this development to Council, of course, and get back to you. Are you being treated well?”

     “Yes.”

     “Have you been on a Run yet…terminated anyone?”

     “No.”

      “Well, we shall be in touch with you in another three months.”

       Cassandra started feeling oddly desperate and alone. “But, what if I need to contact—”

     “That’s impossible. As you know, we are scaling down our Earth Project and pulling out almost all our agents and relay stations. There are no longer any stations in Europe. Neither were there any agents until you were transferred here by Dalworth DS. You are alone. Off hand. I would say this Heinrich Seven is your best chance of survival until we can get you off world.

     “How long will that be?”

     “You signed up for a six-year enlistment. Naturally, if we lose track of you, again, it could be longer.”

     “The man sprang up from the chair and brushed past her to stand against the wall behind the door, as it burst open seconds later.

     “Who were you talking to?” It was Heinrich.

     “No one. I just—"

     “No more lies, Cassandra. I warn you.”

     “There’s no one. I…I was just talking to myself, wondering who lit the fire.”

     Heinrich strode to the chair, his long strides closing the distance in two steps. “Then we’ll wait.” But he never made it to the chair, the butt of a Gun knocking him senseless.

     Cassandra knelt beside him, touched his head and felt the sticky ooze of blood.”

     “You should have done that instead of me!” the stranger’s hushed voice hissed. This said, the door closed, and she was alone with the Sandman.

     “Heinrich?”

     He moaned in answer and gained gradual consciousness.

     “Thank the gods you’re all right.”

     “You can thank God in the morning. Damn,” he muttered, rubbing his head. “That wasn’t you, was it?”

     “No,” she answered, feebly. “I’m sorry. It was my contact.”

     “Should’ve known. Help me up.”

     With his weight braced on her shoulder, she apologized once more. “I’m really sorry.”

     “You said that.” He looked up as she put her arm about his waist to steady him.

     “Should I send for a med-tech?” she asked, helping him to the bed.

     “No. They’ll want to know why we were here and what happened. Just let me rest a minute and I’ll be fine.” She eased him down, cradling his head with her hands, as he lay slowly back on the pillow. “Max was worried about you. He woke me shortly after you left. Would’ve been better off minding my own business.” He rubbed his head again. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth when I first walked in?”

     “I didn’t want him to know how much I’d told you, and he would’ve hit you just the same…unless you left.”

     “Suppose you’re right. Who is he?”

     “Don’t know. He didn’t give his name, and I never saw his face.”

     Heinrich took her hand. “Enough of that. What’s done is done. There’re more important things. Remember me telling you how Germans value the old ways…the old values?”

     She nodded. Could she make herself not feel, not think what he was feeling or thinking? She must try, starting now.”

     “They also honor the old religion. The churches hold services every Sunday and uphold all the old sacraments, like communion and marriage. People believe in not merely pair bonding with another human but in going a step further, by committing all they own, including their lives, to another. They make vows to each other…of faithfulness, honor, and to love and cherish each other unto death.”

     “That’s amazing.” A lovely sentiment but she didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking.

     “I believe in their God, Cassandra, and believe in the vows of marriage with the right person, the one I want to spend the rest of my life with—a very long life, I hope, not just another year or two, but much longer.”

     What did he expect her to say? She turned her head away, instead, but his hand grasped her chin and guided her eyes back to his. “I want us to marry, if you’re willing.”

     She exhaled the breath she’d been holding in anticipation of this very question. “Heinrich, what…what if I don’t want to? Let’s say, I don’t see myself spending whatever years I have left with one man. I’m still young, there’s—"

     “You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it. I’m ready to leave if you can help me a bit.” He rose slowly, swinging his muscular legs off the bed, waited a second, then stood. “Yes, think I’ll make it.” He walked unsteadily toward the door and out, Cassandra bringing up the rear, lost in her thoughts.

 

      They didn’t make it to Church that morning, instead they had a Runner. Cassandra used her new uniform card and pulled an all-black uniform with red piping from the processor.  “Does

this mean I’m a Full Operative?” she asked Heinrich.

     He handed her a glass of juice and a white pill. “Looks like it to me.”

     “What’s this?” she asked, studying the pill.

     “Vitamin to combat travel fatigue.”

     “Oh,” she said, swallowing it and taking a drink of juice.

     He watched as she did in silence. He should be pleased. But he wasn’t. _You’re following orders, old boy,_ he mused. _But I’m lying to her,_ he countered himself. _I promised her no more lies._

     “We’d best get going,” he said aloud. “Gun loaded?”

     She checked the weapon’s charges: two Gas; two Nerve Nets; and two Spider charges She nodded. Max joined them as they left the old living units. Max always went on Runs.

 

       It was a male Runner, just turned Lastday. He’d lived in one of the villages most of his life, nearly forgetting the city. There were Sleep Shops in the village, although most preferred to return to the city itself for their last fantasy. But Gunther Four was different.

     He didn’t want to go. Didn’t really know what he wanted, not even before his lifeclock blackened. He had many friends who went Lastday—one day there, the next day gone. He missed them, but he never mourned them. It was their time. They were with God, weren’t they?

No worries, no cares and decided when his time came he would be ready. Even had his fantasy picked out.

     He would have the Sleeptech program him back to 1385 when Heidelberg was a young town. He’d be a knight in the castle guard and ride across the countryside from village to village, collecting taxes, having love affairs with all the Burgermeisters’s daughters then end his journey at another castle where there would be a huge feast of pheasant, suckling pig, fresh grapes and wine…plenty of wine. There he would drink til he could no longer stay awake and then he would Sleep.

      But this was no fantasy. He changed his mind at the last minute. He wasn’t ready. He felt, rather than saw the dark figures come from the alley close by—a man and a woman.

     “Runner!” the man shouted rather calmly. “You know your rights. Surrender and go to the Sleep Shop. Run, and you face only Death.”

     Sleep…Death. Sleep, Death. The Runner giggled. They were the same. He wasn’t stupid. They were the same thing. Death-Sleep, Deathsleep. Nighty-night. Sleep, the little Death. Fear the Killer.

     The woman had circled behind him, the man still facing him from across the street. The Sandman nodded at his partner. It would be her Kill. Gunther swiveled and stared at her. She was only three, four meters away. She didn’t look like a Sleepkiller. She looked like the Burgermeister’s daughter, the fair maiden of his fantasy. He walked toward her, hand outstretched, a smile of seduction on his face.

     “Run!” she hissed. “Run, you fool!”

     She wanted him to Run, so he did, bolting down the street as fast as his legs could carry him.

He didn’t dare glance back, because, as the last words had left her plush, moist lips, she had changed. He saw the pale gray eyes turn yellow…devil eyes. Even now he could feel that devil’s hot breath on his neck. Moments before the Spider’s bite, he dropped, rolling face-up to see the Devilspawn straddling him, spittle dribbling from its huge teeth and snarling black mouth. He watched the Sandlady-Devil come up, Gun pointed at his chest. The Dark One left at her approach. She was the Devil. He started at her, unable to speak, paralyzed by the Spider.

     “I’m sorry,” the Devil said lowly. “I’ll make it as quick as possible.” She opened his mouth and stuck the Gun’s muzzle into it, twisting the dial to “Gas” and fired.

     _No, not the Devil,_ the Runner corrected himself in his last minute. _An angel._ Then he Slept.

 

     The Sandman walked up as the Runner went terminally limp, looked to the woman, patted the dog, and called in the kill. Still confused. He’d expected more, somehow. She’d done nothing exceptional, nothing any other Sandlady operative couldn’t have done equally well. She’d walked away from the Runner’s body, Gun dangling wearily in her hand. Slowly, her grip tightened, and she holstered the deadly devise, still walking, Max loping beside her. He followed them to an alley, where he found her slumped against the wall, head buried on her knees and arms wrapped around the dog’s thick neck. His huge head was bent against hers, licking her ear. Heinrich came and stood beside her, leaning against the wall.

     “Your first real kill?”

     She nodded.

     “It had to happen sooner or later. It’s why you’re here.”

     “I know,” she mumbled. “They’re watching us, aren’t they?”

     He diverted his eyes out to the street. “The citz? Yeah. You make them feel guilty. They just discovered DS have feelings, too. Everyone watching who has thoughts of Running feels guilty now. They’ll give Sleep more serious consideration.” He bent down, offering her a hand up.

     She took it and stood up, wiping her eyes with a free hand. Max whined, nudging her until she caressed his head. And so, Max on one side and Heinrich on the other, they emerged from the alley to face the stares of the citizens of Heidelberg.

     Cassandra stopped in the middle of the crowd and pointed to the dead Runner’s body, already being sprayed and vacuumed by the Streetcleaners.

     “That could have been one of you,” she said softly, so softly only those closest could hear, but her words soon spread to those who hadn’t.

     Her eyes traveled from one citizen to another, who stumbled to get out of her way as she continued, eyes red but resolute.

     “You!” she said, pointing to one whose eyes panicked instantly. She turned to another whose gaze averted hers. “And you, too,” she said, her breath above a whisper. “Runner.”

      She began laughing hysterically and Heinrich hurried her off, deciding she was very unusual after all. Never again would he question Thinker’s decisions. There wouldn’t be a Runner in that neighborhood for many a month.

     To punctuate the woman’s words, Max turned and stiffened at the crowd, hackles raised, lips curled, and a deep, reverberating growl scattering them in all directions. Then, quite pleased with himself, he panted happily, wheeled and bounded like a puppy to catch up with his master and new mistress.

 

     Five weeks following Darnell’s return to Sanctuary and once more becoming Jonathan, the elderly Logan Five and Jessica Six found Vera Four, mother of Cassandra Three, dead in her room, sprawled face down upon her bed, an empty bottle beside an outstretched hand.  She and Jonathan had argued the night before—nearly everyone in their quad had heard their heated words.

     He wanted her to go back to Meldana and see the physicians there. She flatly refused, saying she’d never be any better than she was, something he should already know. He countered, she’d been better when they first married. She parried he had seen only what he wanted. Their words had gone on for almost an hour like that, until he finally asked her what she wanted of him.

     She answered, “I want you to leave me alone!”

     In utter compliance, he left and spent the night in his father’s unoccupied quarters. Assigned early duty the next morning, he had received no answer at their rooms and called Logan to check in on her, so he could report for work.

     The door had been locked, but Logan smashed the control panel with a bony elbow and forced the door with his shoulder. His middle-aged bones and muscles would feel the effect weeks afterwards. Jessica was the one who found the body and the cryptic note beside it. Logan had entered the bedroom seconds later.

     Upon seeing his friend’s wife lying there, he felt very old. First Vera Three then Francis, and now Vera’s daughter-clone, Vera Four. One by one they were going. Which was better, he wondered, death at thirty or to live on and on, never knowing when Lastday would be?

     Jess turned to him, eyes tearing. He put an arm about her shoulders and guided her out of the death room. “I’ll call Jonathan and wait for him. You go on.”

     After notifying Jonathan, Logan sat on the couch in the living area, staring at himself in a nearby mirror. His hairline had receded and only a few streaks of blond still remained in his predominately white hair. Underneath his eyes, the skin sagged a bit too much, as did that beneath his cheeks. There were even a few lines in his face which were deeper than a few years ago. Cracks.

     _Just like the Old Man_ , he thought. He’d been right. They didn’t hurt. He exhaled slowly.

     If only he and Jess had had children of their own. But it was not to be. Instead, he took Francis’ place as Vera Four’s father and had been present for her mental ups and down, throughout the years, and whenever Jonathan had been gone.

     He looked again at the note in his thin, pale hands. A small piece of beige synthvellum, it was folded over once. He opened it with hesitation, eyes blurred by tears. Even though it was addressed on the outside to Jonathan, Logan felt he must read it first. Blinking back the moisture clouding his vision, he focused on the tiny scrawl.

    

_I cannot be whole until there is only one._

 

     Logan shook his head. Well, maybe Jonathan could make sense of it. The younger man came in then, face drawn and haggard, the melanin-enhanced face a bit pale. He rushed to the open bedroom door and stood there a few seconds before he went to the still corpse of his dead wife, turning the body over and cradling her in his arms, rocking back and forth, his head bowed over hers as Logan rose and walked to the doorway.

     “You want me to call the techs?”

     Jonathan shook his head. “I’ll call them later.”

     “You know where to reach me, if you need anything.”

     The younger man nodded, sobs beginning to wrack his body.

     Logan left, body aching, and wiping the tears from his own eyes.

 

     Ballard Three came as soon as he heard the news. “Someone should go down and tell Cassandra,” he said.

     Jonathan dragged him footsteps down the corridor of Sanctuary’s Council Office sector. “I need to go anyway.”

     “I’ll go with you.”

     “No, you have too much in New City.”

     “Almost wrapped up. They’ll never miss me.”

     “Maybe she already knows,” said Jonathan.

     “The note? Are you thinking what I am?”

     “It makes sense. It’s the only thing that does make sense.”  They walked farther on in silence.

     “I’m afraid she’s falling for him.”

     “Heinrich?”

     “Mmm. He’s old enough to be her father!”

     “Hmm,” Ballard answered.

     ‘Did I tell you he’s your half-brother?”

     “Do you believe that, though? Have you checked it out?”

     “No, but if you knew him as I do, you’d believe it.”

     “Should we offer him Sanctuary?”

     “Not sure. Not sure I’m the one to say, since I’m definitely prejudiced.”

      “For?”

      “Against.”

 

     That same night Cassandra awoke, chilled, and felt a growing warmth begin in her chest which quickly enveloped her entire body. Aware of muscles tensing in new-found strength, her brain became more acutely aware of her surroundings: the dog snoring softly beside her; the silky feel of the sheets; the nearly silent hum of the room temperature regulator and the processors.

     Her eyes turned to Heinrich, asleep on the other side of Max, her increased insight seeing him anew. She began noticing flaws in what she had once regarded as the perfect Aryan male. His nose was a tad too large. He had virtually no earlobes, and his eyebrows and lashes were so pale one could barely see them. The more she looked at him, the more she noticed. Finally, she diverted her attention from the male and started stroking the dog’s head.

     Without warning, her fingers jerked away.

     My gods, she could see his dreams: dreams of playing with Heinrich and her, running across a grassy meadow as they took turns chasing each other.

     Cassandra clutched herself, knees drawn to her chest. What was happening? Her views of other’s thoughts had never been like this before, and her brain seemed to be teeming with knowledge, things she couldn’t begin to guess at.

     She did know Max was a clone.  She knew those vitamin pills were strong fertility drugs to counteract the contraceptive injection she’d been giving prior to coming to Earth. She knew this man in bed with her was not whom he had told her he was. And she knew, sometime in the future, she must kill him, as certainly as she knew when she did, a child would be growing within her—a male child whose name would be—

     Her mind went suddenly askew, focusing on new knowledge. She couldn’t yet control this new power, but she would learn. She would learn. She knew that, too.”

     “Cassandra.”

     Someone was calling her name.

     “Cassandra, what’s wrong?”

     It was Heinrich, suddenly awake. Or was it morning. How long had she been sitting there?

     “My mother is dead,” she answered, matter-of-factly. The words had just come. How could she know? But she did. Vera Four had become one with Cassandra.

 

     As he and Jonathan prepared for their trip to Heidelberg, Ballard remembered something.

     “Francis’ journal.”

     “What?” asked Jonathan.

     “His journal. Council asked him when he first came to Sanctuary to record all he could remember as far back as his first role in developing Thinker. I’ll be the tapes are still locked up with the rest of his possessions. If Heinrich is Ballard Two’s son, that should confirm it.”

     “We’ll requisition them and listen on the way down.”

     Agreed, they made straight for Storage.

 

     The Run that day put Heinrich nearly in shock. Cassandra climbed one of the ancient building when he sent her around to cover a Runner’s potential escape route. He first spotted her nimbly scaling the stone walls and emerging second later atop the four-story structure, Gun poised as the Runner came in her direction.

     “Runner!” she shouted but more hissed at the confused female Red. The Runner looked up, aghast, turned and saw Heinrich advancing on her from behind. The woman turned back, looking up at Cassandra, pleaded with her as one of her own gender for mercy. But the new Cassandra possessed no mercy.

     “Die, Runner!” she hissed then coolly pulled the trigger. The Nerve Net did the rest.

     Her action made Heinrich’s flesh crawl, and yet this was the Cassandra he’d expected when he first read her dossier—this kind of huntress, cool and efficient the way Vera Three had been.

     He called in the Streetcleaners, watching Cassandra jump lithely down and land a few meters in front of him. She was smiling.

     ‘Come on,” she had said, taking his arm and steering him off to a nearby tavern, “buy you a beer.”

 

      The next morning things were different. As he dressed, she watched, thinking to herself, and when he walked toward her, fastening his waist length tunic, he said, “You’re not dressed. Are you feeling well?”

     There had been an Operative Ball the night before, all DS dressed in medieval costumes, the men in Fifteenth Century padded jerkins, emphasizing their broad shoulders and narrow hips. Cassandra had barely been able to stifle her giggles at the sight of the men in their elaborate codpieces, and the men had struggled to take their eyes off the low-cut bodice of the pink silk court gown she wore, complete with ornately embroidered roses and butterflies. Her dark hair coiffed and curled atop her head with more roses—real ones—she’d loved the live orchestra, the dancing, and the exuberance of Heinrich’s strong arms about her as they floated across the marble floor to the strains of the “Blue Danube”. She had never wanted it to end. Her gown still hung on the wall next to Heinrich’s costume.

     “No, I don’t feel too great,” she finally answered his question regarding her well-being. “Woman time coming, I guess.”

     “Hmm,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Well, why don’t you rest, then?”

     She reached out to him, and he took her into his arms.

     “What is it, Cass?” He had started using an abbreviation of her name last night.

     “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

     He stroked her cheek then kissed her lightly. “You realize you can tell me anything, don’t you?  I love you, Cass. Please trust me, won’t you?”

     “I do trust you.” How could she help it when all she could feel as they touched like this was his overwhelming affection for her? Yes, he did truly love her. So why did she know, instinctively, there was more to him than what he’d told her?

     “Tell you what,” he said,” why don’t we take my paravane and get away this afternoon. Go somewhere sunny and warm. Maybe the Mediterranean. Sleep out on the beach, swim in the sea. You’ll feel like a new woman by tomorrow morning.”

     “Okay.” She still felt depressed, though.

     “Want me to leave Max with you?”

     “No, you take him. I’ll be fine. See you this afternoon.”

     When the door closed behind the two, she looked about the room. There, on the wall, opposite the right side of the bed, hung his display of ancient swords and daggers. Some, he’d told her, went back to the Crusades. One of those daggers he carried in his boot, and she, herself, carried one as well. It once belonged to a lady in King Ludwig’s court, he said, who’d killed four men with it, single-handedly, when the castle was attacked by Saxons. The handle layered in gold and silver, the emeralds embedded in the hilt glistened where they were surrounded by pearls the size of peas. The scabbard, which remained on the wall, was equally ornate.

     Risen from the bed, Cassandra went to the computer desk. The drawers held numerous tapes and discs. Unsure of what she was searching for, her new-found instinct told her she would know when she found it. In fact, the information on each tape and disc she touched appeared in her mind. Regulations. History. Logistics. Languages. Architecture. Nothing here.

     The rest of the morning, she scoured the apartment and still discovered nothing of note. Finally, the time came when Heinrich would return. She straightened the living unit and made herself presentable, slipping into a red skinsuit for their afternoon trip.

     The food processor programmed for two meals, when they emerged from the appropriate slot, she packed them away for travel. Already, the ‘vane held their camping supplies. This task done, she turned her attention to the old wooden door which connected this bedroom to her former one which she’d given up weeks before. Even though they’d yet to have sex, Cassandra found it difficult to sleep anywhere except in the same bed with him, despite the fact the black body of a hundred-and-fifty-pound Rottweiler separated them.

    Cassandra did need to get away from the city. She no longer knew who she was or what she wanted. The Sandlady who terminated the Runner the previous day had been a stranger to her, someone who suddenly possessed her body then as deserted her as quickly to face the emotional consequences.

 

     The flight to the Mediterranean beaches seemed short. The sky seemed bluer here, the air cleaner, the sea itself an unbelievable azure of deepest hues. They set up camp above the tideline, at the meal she had packed, then lay back watching the clouds float by overhead.

     “Feel better?” Heinrich asked, putting an arm around her and guiding her head to his shoulder.

     “Mm, much better.” She held him tighter, burrowing into his broad chest. He raised her chin

and kissed her, his hands caressing her back, her buttocks, her breasts. “Remember what I said about the right time?” he murmured in her ear. “This is it.”

 

     That evening, she was certain a child grew inside her. She watched him fiddling with the fire he tried to get started and said, “Now, will you tell me the truth?”

     Without looking up, he asked, nonchalantly, “What d’ya mean?”

     “Who you really are.”

     He lifted his head and met her eyes, bent over, kissed her then locked his gaze to hers again. “I told you.”

     “No, you lied to me, again. You’re not Ballard Two’s son. Your face hasn’t seen a single face change, and you’re nowhere near as old as you claim.”

     The smile he had worn all afternoon vanished. “What does it matter who I am? I’m a Thinker-agent, that’s all you need to know, isn’t it?”

     “Is it? Don’t I deserve to know what’s going to happen to me when you go Lastday? Don’t I need to know what the future holds for me, then?”

     “I told you, you’re a Thinker-agent, too. Nothing will happen. Besides, I don’t go Lastday according to DS records for nearly six months. By then, I’ll be long gone.”

     “And me?”

     “You’ll be with me. I thought you understood that. We’re paired. Why do you think I want to marry you, Cass?” He went silent, his gaze now studying the flames of the fire as they were swept sideways by the sea breeze.  “You want to know the whole truth?”

     “That would be nice.”

     “Then marry me, make that commitment, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Until then, you must accept the half-truths.”

     He turned and sat before her, taking her hands in his. “Cass, look at me.”

     Her eyes met his, pools of silver liquid.

     “Do you love me?”

     “I guess so.”

     “I mean it, Cass. Are you willing to go wherever I go, be with me, come right or wrong, good times or bad, until the only thing that separates us is death, itself?”

     “I—I don’t know.”

     “You must know, Cass, because if you don’t there isn’t any future.”

     “But how can—”

     “No future, Cass. None. Not for me, not for you, not for anyone.” Without explanation he rose to his feet, called Max and walked down the beach away from her.

     “What do you want me to say?” she screamed after him. “What do you want from me?”

     “I want to know what you believe!” she heard him shout back from the darkness.

     “What I…” Cassandra shook her head to straighten her jangled thoughts. Why did he have to make matters so difficult?

     She wanted to be strong, but it was hard to call up the new-found energies she’d awakened to a few days ago. She needed to think more clearly. He needed—deserved—an answer to his questions. For over a month, she’d put it off and never given it proper consideration, not even when they attended Church together, heard the sermons, not even when they attended the marriage of two other DS personnel: Greens. At least they’d have ten years or so together.

     Could such a commitment really make such a difference? Would it make their relationship more viable or long lasting than without it?”

     Logan and Jessica had married. Her mother and father had married. But Francis Seven and Vera Three never did, and theirs was a love of which legends were born, like William Shakespeare’s tragic story of Romeo and Juliet.

      No, she couldn’t keep thinking in this vein. She must concentrate on her mission here, think of what would be the ultimate best for the good of this world, instead of herself as an individual. This was the Prime Directive of a Meldanan Earth agent, and one she must abide by at any cost, including her own happiness. She must consider the consequences and advantages of any decision she made. What would best serve the people of Earth, Sanctuary, the Program.

     Is that what Heinrich meant by there being no future for anyone if she didn’t know what she wanted?

     Cassandra watched him and the dog down the beach, their figures backlit by the glow of an enormous full moon. Heinrich was playing tag with Max, swatting the huge dog’s muscular rump, then running away, Max chasing him, bouncing off the Sandman’s back then running away himself, Heinrich in hot pursuit.

     She rose slowly and began walking down the white beach toward them. The sand under her bare feet was uncomfortable, hard and yet yielding, a sensation she found unpleasant. Even as she approached the two, Cassandra still hadn’t made up her mind. What was best for Earth? She knew that answer. But only when she came close enough to see Heinrich’s fact did she know what she wanted and what was right were one and the same.

     He looked at her, light eyes calm and loving. His hands reached out, and she took them as he drew her to him, holding her close. She couldn’t control the tears which came nor the emotions of need, safety, fulfillment, love, and yes, even commitment which swept over her.

     “Heinrich, I want to marry you.”

     He held her tighter, kissed her hair, murmuring, “You’ll never be sorry for saying that. With God as my witness, you’ll never be sorry.” But it, too, was a lie.

 


	5. Chapter 5

## Chapter Five

 

     Landing their ‘vane some distance down the same beach, Ballard Three and Darnell Seven found the couple as they returned to their campsite. But the dog spotted the two men at once, his body stiffening, hackles raised and a deep growl trembling his massive body.

     “What is it, boy?” asked Heinrich, stroking the dog’s broad head.

     In response, Max walked a few steps towards the approaching men in black, his legs still stiff. It was then Heinrich recognized Darnell. “It’s all right, Max. Easy.”

     Darnell raised his hand in greeting, and Heinrich returned the gesture, heading to them. Cassandra, remained silent.

     When the two DS reached close enough for introductions, Heinrich put his hand on Darnell’s shoulder and turned him toward Cassandra, smiling. “This is Darnell Seven, Cass, you remember me telling you about him.”

     “Yes.” She remembered all right: his best friend in Shreveport. She recognized the man with him but refused to make any overturns unaware of his purpose here or why he was with this other Sandman.

     “Pleased to meet you,” she said, extending a hand to the darker-skinned man, who took it and looked directly in the eye as he spoke.

     “Heinrich has told me much about you. It’s a distinct pleasure, Cassandra.”

     That voice! She knew it! And a mere nanosecond she placed it. This was her contact! She glanced at Ballard. He nodded slightly but wasn’t smiling. Neither did she.

     Darnell had introduced Ballard to Heinrich, but Cassandra hadn’t heard what name he used. After introductions, Heinrich escorted the two men back to their campsite, while Max gamboled ahead to show the way.

     While they sat about the campfire, Ballard spoke up. “As Darnell has told you, I’m from New City, Heinrich, Cassandra’s dome of origin. There are matters I need to discuss with her privately. If you wouldn’t mind detaching yourself from her for a while.”

     Heinrich had kept his arm around Cassandra’s waist ever since she agreed to marry him. He looked to Darnell then to Cassandra, who met his eyes, hoping she could truly trust him.

     “Heinrich is my pair-mate and soon-to-be husband,” she announced. "There’s nothing you can’t discuss with me in his presence.” She stroked the big dog beside her leg for reassurance that she’d spoken the right words.

     Both Sandmen were visibly shaken by the news, she could see, but recovered quickly, a reaction too brief for anyone but a Meldanan to notice.

     “Well,” Ballard began. "It’s your mother, Cassandra.”

     “I know. She’s dead.”

     “She…”

     Cass could see it all inside Ballard’s further thoughts and blurted out, “Suicide!”

     Heinrich looked at her then to the two other men. Darnell had turned away, rose, then watching Cassandra suffering with her grief, walked toward her but stopped and stooped down.

     “Cassandra, look at me!” But she was shaking her head, Max’s eyes regarding her and whining quietly in sympathy.

     “I knew she had died,” she was saying. “I knew it but couldn’t accept it, until now.”

     “Cassandra,” Darnell said again, “look at me, please.”

     She raised her head and met the steely gray eyes, ones like hers, and knew he grieved as much as she. “Daddy?”  She hadn’t called him that since she’d been a small child.

     He nodded, reaching out for her, and she fell into his waiting arms, tears streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks. Heinrich touched her shoulder then withdrew his hand. He turned to face Ballard, who rose, taking him aside.

     They walked down the empty beach a short way, where the other Sandman began to fill him in, but not without first exposing a few truths.

     “We know you’re not Ballard Two’s son, certainly not born when you said. We have Ballard’s records. He makes no mention of any offspring until many years later, the first being Francis Eight, when he was in the City as Francis Seven in 2274. We know the location of Francis Eight. You’re not him, and Francis Eight really isn’t his son, either.”

     “No, I’m not Ballard’s son.”

     “As you’ve seen, Darnell is, in fact, Cassandra’s father, Jonathan.”

     “Yes, I know.”

     “What you may not know is Jonathan is a Meldanan, a race from a distant planet which has taken an interest in the present-day culture of Earth and the ramifications of that culture. The Meldanans have been observing Earth cities since 2274, when they sent the first operative.”

     “Vera Three.”

     “Yes, Vera Three…my mother.”

     “I see.”

     “No, I don’t think you do, Heinrich. That makes Cassandra my niece, and if anyone hurts her, retribution could be painfully exacting. She’s of pure Meldanan blood, and like all Meldanans, she has certain abilities: empathic, mind-touch, precognition, to name a few. She might not have had full function of these for years to come, but the recent death of her mother has released what Meldanans call ‘the essence’—the spirit, Earth Humans call it. Jonathan and I believe this essence has joined with Cassandra’s own, which was originally Vera Three’s. There are no recorded instances of such a joining, since this whole situation is rather unique. Have you noticed any unusual behavior in the last few days?”

     “Now you mention it, yes. Odd mood swings, episodes of overt…’toughness, ruthlessness.’ I can’t describe it any better.”

     “Her mind must be trying to adjust to the new sensations. You do realize you can’t lie to her anymore. She’ll know or at least suspect.”

     “I don’t intend to. There’s no longer any reason.”

     They headed back to distant, glowing campfire and, on arrival, found Max still lying beside Cassandra, head contentedly resting on his big paws.

     “There’s one other thing,” Ballard started, stopping still out of earshot, “Jonathan and I agree the fastest and surest way to straighten this out with you, is for you to undergo mind-touch by Cassandra.”

     “Exactly what would that involve?”

    “She would probe your mind, your latent, as well as active, memories, even your ancestral ones, if she’s able. Vera Three could have done it, but we’re not certain of Cassandra’s mind-touch capabilities at this time.”

     “Is there any chance of brain damage?”

     “To you, no. To her, yes—if she loses control of her objectivity or disengages too quickly. There will no longer be a question as to your honesty. You can’t hide things or twist the truth during a mind-touch.”

     “I’ve nothing to hide, not anymore. It will all soon be out in the open, anyway. I agree. Let’s do it.”

     Ballard walked up to Jonathan. “He’s agreed. Is she ready?”

     “I think so. I’ve explained I’ll guide her through the process and coach her during the contact phase. Are you ready, Heinrich?” he asked, turning toward the human.

     That man squatted beside the fire, regarding a very subdued Cassandra, and reached out to take her hand before Jonathan grabbed it.

     “You mustn’t touch her.”

     “Sorry, I just…”

     “We understand, but she needs time to prepare her mind, empty it of all thought and emotion. Please, sit there, make yourself comfortable and try emptying your mind, then keep it that way throughout the process.”

     “Cassandra, are you ready?” asked Ballard.

     From where Max had been put on a Stay, he observed the proceedings, guarding the humans he loved, mahogany-kissed eyebrows twitching up and down as he glanced from one human to the other, head cocked, his curious, canine mind attempting to figure it all out.

    Cassandra nodded in affirmation to Ballard’s question, and her father guided her to a kneeling position behind Heinrich, placing her fingertips on his temples. “Slowly, sweetheart, allow yourself to enter. You are falling slowly, very slowly.”

     Her eyes closed.

     “There is darkness, but it is a friendly darkness, a warm darkness. You are falling faster now, but are still in control. Falling, falling. You see a light below you. As you near it, you see people. You are among them now. Listen. Watch. Can you see them?”

     She nodded.

     “Do you hear them?”

     Another nod. Then she gasped.

     “Regain your objectivity, Cassandra. You are an observer. Nothing is happening to you.”

     She relaxed, breathed more deeply, her head turning sluggishly one way and another then abruptly stopping, face rigid.

     “Cassandra, you are not breathing. Breathe, Cassandra, breath!” Jonathan placed his hands on her diaphragm. “Breathe, my precious one. You are an observer. Nothing affects you. You must breathe.”

     At last, she sucked her lungs full of air in a single long inhalation. Jonathan relaxed and checked her respiration. Slow but normal. “Good girl. Have you seen everything?”

     She nodded.

     “Good. Come back. Slowly now, not too fast. Melt into the background through the crowds, ease yourself away and leave it all behind. You are coming back to the present, back to me, back to Ballard, back to Heinrich. Slowly. The light below you is fading til there is the friendly darkness once more. Now, above you, shines the light of Present. Swim up to it, reach for it. Good. Deep, slow breaths, inhale, exhale.

     “Your fingers are slipping from Heinrich’s temples, slowly, oh so slowly.” He watched while her fingers crept ever so slightly backwards, away from the man’s head, scant millimeters at a time, until they were totally off. “Slowly still, touch your eyes, now your own temples. Good. Open your eyes.”

      She lifted her lids like one awakening from a deep sleep. Then she collapsed. Anticipating such a reaction, Jonathan was there to catch her. Seconds after, she returned to reality. Heinrich had slumped forward, caught by Ballard who slowly eased him to the sand.

     “Good,” Jonathan said. “We’ll let him sleep while we find out what happened. Cassandra,” he said, rousing her, helping her to sit.

     She rubbed her eyes, wakening again with less grogginess. She breathed deeply then looked at Ballard and her father. “I never would have guessed in a thousand years!”

     “What, Cassandra?” asked Ballard. “Who is he?”

     “Thinker. He’s Thinker.”

     “This man is not a computer, my sweet niece,” said Ballard, pointing at the sleeping man.

     “Neither is the Thinker. It’s constantly being reprogrammed, redirected. By him.”

     “We’ll work this part out later. What else did you find?”

     “A thousand children, all over the world, different seed-mothers, different domes, all the same father. Him.”

     Jonathan and Ballard stared at each other dumbfounded.

     “There’s more,” said Cassandra. “He has fifty Sanctuaries all over the world with over-thirties. Intellectuals, scientists, engineers. He’s going to repopulate the domes and other cities and villages with them and the others and the children over the next ten years.

     “Almost exactly as we had planned,” muttered Ballard.

     “He will be sending out a directive to all cities within the next year. No more automatic Lastday, no more Lifeclocks, DS police force only. Free trade.”

     “Is there more,” asked Jonathan.

     She nodded. “He has old memories, older than himself, older than the Little War.”

     “A clone?”

     She nodded again. “Yes, his originator knew Vera Three, that’s why he chose me…to add to the gene pool for future generations. He tried before with Mama and Danine. But they were faulty. He wanted offspring from Ballard Three and Danine for his plan.

     “That why she tried so hard to seduce me,” Ballard mused aloud, remembering the luscious, dark-haired Cajun beauty.

     “Yes. He tried to detain Mama in Shreveport, to use her, but she escaped.”

     “I think I’m beginning to understand,” said Jonathan to no one in particular.

     “Who is he, Cass?” asked Ballard. “A name, he has to have a name. Who was his originator?"

     They’d nearly forgotten the sleeping man, who made his presence known by moaning slightly as he began to stir. All three turned to him now.

     “Ballard was his originator,” answered Cassandra. “Ballard Two.” She paused, rose and sat on the ground next to her pair-mate. “His name is Legion,” she added softly.

     Heinrich sat up, elbow braced on a knee, rubbing his head with both hands. “Damn, I feel like I’ve been sucked dry and tossed away.” His eyes raised up to meet Cassandra’s. “So, now you known all there is to know.”

     She nodded, smoothing his finger ruffled hair into place.

     “And you two goons,” he said, pointing to Ballard and Jonathan, “are you satisfied I’m not the big, bad bogeyman all set to spirit off this tasty, dark-haired morsel and do all sorts of dastardly things to her tempting body?”

     “Pretty much,” answered Ballard.

     But Jonathan was still unsatisfied. “Why aren’t you mentioned in Ballard’s journals?”

     “We agreed to keep it secret. The cities didn’t need to know there was more than one Ballard. Whenever he disappeared, I took over until his return. Then I started recruiting Thinker-agents. None of them knew I was anything but one of them and certainly not the Thinker itself.”

     He turned his gaze to the sky. “It’s getting late. We’d best depart for Heidelberg, Cass.”

     She started to rise, but Jonathan pushed her back, as Heinrich stood. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

     “Why not? I’ve given you people what you wanted. Now that I’m just a lowly clone, do you consider me not good enough for your daughter? Don’t forget her mother was a clone, Jonathan, and that was certainly good enough for you!”

     “Heinrich, please,” Cassandra put in. “That was uncalled for.”

     “No, Cass,” he said, pushing her out of the way. “I want to know why you can’t go with me.”

     “Because it’s too dangerous,” said Jonathan. “That’s why.”

     “Dangerous? Dangerous! She’s as safe with me as with you at your precious Sanctuary.”

     “She’s pregnant.” Jonathan could no longer keep this fact to himself. “Did you know that?”

     Heinrich grinned. “Well, it’s a little too soon to tell.”

     “Not for her. Do you want the child taken from her and raised in an artificial womb? Remember, this is one of the key links in your new plan, my friend,” he said facetiously. “Do you want your child--?”

     “Children,” Cassandra corrected. “It’s twins.” She went to her father. “Daddy, I want to be with him, and whatever he decides is what I want, too. He won’t do anything unless it’s for the good of the babies and me. I trust him. Why can’t you?”

     Jonathan turned to face Heinrich. “Can you promise me you’ll get her out of Heidelberg within the next four months?”

     Heinrich nodded. “Yes, I can.”

     “And, if you decide she’ll have the babies naturally, you’ll bring her to us before she’s due?”

     “I promise that, as well.”

 

     Months later, the Meldanans recalled all their Earth agents and told the Sanctuary inhabitants they were free to return. Death at thirty had been abolished. A few of the older ones decided to stay, but most went back to Earth. The Meldanans stayed another two years at the two Sanctuary stations, monitoring for signs of unrest. There were none. A few people returned to Sanctuary, stayed a while then flew back to live on Earth for good. The few remaining people were given the opportunity of relocating to one of the other colonies or going to Meldanan, itself.

     Soon, Sanctuary II on Earth’s moon was closed completely, shortly after Sanctuary I on Argus. Despite the many attempts at locating Heinrich and Cassandra since the night on the Mediterranean beach, and Heinrich’s promise to bring Cass back for her delivery, they were never heard from or found. The Thinker and his Sandlady had simply vanished.

 

(This is not the end. I'm working on revising the final chapter, so look for it by the middle of March)

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their return to Heidelberg, Cassandra looks forward to a happy future with Heinrich and the birth of their twins, until matters rapidly change and nothing she hopes for becomes reality.

## Chapter Six

     Upon their return to Heidelberg and abed with Max insinuated between them, as they had slept every night since her first one there, Heinrich ran the back of his fingers down the plane of her cheek.

     “We agreed no more lies, right?”

     “We did.”

     “Did you see in my mind, the reason I treated you as I did, that first night when I came home?”

     “No, or if I did, deemed it unimportant.”

     “You should know…,” he began. “I must explain—” His words halted, and to Cass it seemed he couldn’t express himself, something she’d never known him incapable of.

     “I-I, you see—” he tried again.

     “Speak, Heinrich, regardless of what it is.”

     “Each Sandman here is given…a number of select women to…to—”

     “To fertilize?” she finished for him, seeing the unspoken words within his brain.

     “Yes. The number varies from ten to thirty, depending on the Sandman’s attributes. I was assigned thirty.”

     “By Computer?”

     “Yes.”

     “But you are Thinker, and Thinker send the orders to each city’s Computer, so…?”

     “Thinker sends what it considers most paramount and the general directives. In each City, the Computer, alone, interprets variances on these directives, such as Lastday and Regeneration. Regeneration here is accomplished in a more primitive, natural way of personal contact.”

     Cassandra realized her face must bear a look of both horror and jealousy, especially after they expressed their physical love hours earlier.

     “Cass,” he said, taking her hand and kissing the knuckles, “you must understand. I felt nothing for any of them. Once the medtechs injected me with massive doses of hormones, I would have mated with anything or anyone put before me. In this state, I returned home, thinking of you and—”

     “I see,” she said, interrupting him and sliding her hand from his.

 

     A few months after their return to Heidelberg, Heinrich announced to Cassandra it was time for her trip to RegCom. He explained it was the only way to satisfy CC…give it it’s pound of flesh, so to speak. But Cassandra wasn’t happy. She could see the logic behind his decision. She could always have another child, and there was the possibility—as he’d pointed out—the hormones might have caused some developmental problems in the embryos. Better to have CC be responsible for the consequences than them. Finally, she agreed.

     “There is something you should know,” she revealed on their walk to RegCom, still wearing their DS blacks.

     He snaked an arm about her narrow waist and drew her close. “Anything you need say, just say it.”

     “When Grandmother was on Earth, Thinker, or the City Computer, took samples from her, and realized she was made differently, how differently, I’m not sure remains in the records here or anywhere else.” She stopped short and turned to him. “Heinrich, my reproductive organs more closely resemble those of a lower form of animal, my uterus bifurcated like theirs, although with a complete set of ovaries for each horn, being four in total instead of the normal two. Those animals, so composed, often have twins and occasionally triplets or quadruplets, and the lower ones, litters of six to twelve. I am capable of recurring pregnancies resulting in twins. So, what I’m trying to say…”

     “That when these are removed, the medtechs will discover your abnormality.”

     “Among my race I am considered normal, not abnormal.”

     “Still…”

     “Still, I thought you should be aware, in case…”

     “Not to worry. I’m sure your medical records have been connected with those of your grandmother.”

     The ensuing operation went off without a hitch, except for the attending head medtech having a lengthy discussion with Heinrich during and afterwards, verifying Cassandra’s revelation.

    

     A week later, Heinrich declared the time had come for their departure and shortly thereafter they left Heidelberg in their paravane.

     They flew from city to city, never staying more than a few nights in any one place. They went to the Americas and finally Crazy Horse, where Heinrich had shown her the complete complex, the Thinker core, the monitoring room with its array of monitors for not only security within and without the complex, but those connected through satellite to numerous major cities Central Computers. Another large room contained a library, much, she imagined, like the ancient library in Alexandra, destroyed and lost to civilization, this one containing bank upon bank of digital archives of every written work known to mankind and where she could find solitude and quench her thirst for learning. At the very end, he revealed where they would live, opening a roof-high, carved wooden door, which opened onto a large bedroom and sitting room.

     Within the sleeping area, stood a large, old-fashioned, mahogany four poster bed, the tops of which came within inches of the high vaulted ceiling, large enough to comfortably sleep four people. Heinrich laughed when she ran to the bed and bounced up and down on it, her laughter joining his, because this was the first bed, besides the one in Heidelberg, she considered comfortable.

     “Yonder,” he said, pointing toward another wooden door at the side, “is an adjacent bedroom that I’ll use as an office, where I can go through reports or do what I need without disturbing you if my duty takes me late into the night.”

 

     The Thinker machine programmed with new directives, Heinrich regained his original name of Legion and set the processor for new clothes for them both, of the color none were allowed to wear: purple, the color of royalty. She and he would become the Rulers of the World, he explained. He would call himself the Patriarch, and she would be known to all as the

Matriarch. After all, they would be the parents of a new race. Their children would span the

globe, replacing the simple-minded citizens of all the domes.

     When she became pregnant, two months would pass before they visited another Regeneration Complex, Cassandra undergoing embryo transfer, recover, then leave with the Patriarch. Month after month, the time of gestation became shorter until Legion insisted she undergo ovum donor surgery—having her ripe ova removed, some at each city would be better for her health, he convinced her, rather than undergoing pregnancy for a limited time. This new regimen, however, didn’t preclude the normal method of conception.

     In a few years, Cassandra had produced seventy-two children, including several sets of twins—none of whom he allowed her to see. This had been done for her own good, he told her, and she believed him, because it was what she wanted to believe. She loved him. She trusted him. “Till Death do us part.”

     That was what the minister in the small Austrian village had them repeat at the end of the ceremony which committed them to each other, shortly after leaving the Mediterranean.

     Now, as they again returned to Crazy Horse Monument and the cave beneath it, which housed the gigantic workings of Thinker and their maze of living quarters, she recalled things she had

 “known” the morning of her First Awakening: all his secrets.

     

     One night, while lying in bed, as he reviewed the stats from her latest blood work, which revealed her latest pregnancy, and forbidden to call him Heinrich or even Legion, she pleaded, “Please, Beloved, please let me keep this one. I need it. I need a child of ours to feel moving within me, to nurture and raise.”

     He regarded her sympathetically, caressing her pale cheek, then said, “Do you truly think that’s wise, my love?” He no longer called her by name but “my love,” “beloved”, or “my dear.” “It would set him apart from Others,” he further rationalized, “making him superior to our other children. Do you want that? In the distant future, his existence could catalyze a rebellion and ruin everything we’ve worked for.”

     Cassandra agreed—again. He was right. He was always right. Her selfish motives overruled her logic. She didn’t taken into consideration what would be best for mankind.

     This child, too, would be surrendered, sometime before they ever reached their destination, which always happened when she questioned things. He made sure the child growing inside her never stayed to complicate matters.

 

     The following months, Heinrich became more obsessed with religious sanctions—ones touted millennia ago, primarily sex only for procreation. Once a woman conceived, her mate forsook her bed and sought the fulfillment of his needs with other women. This, he pointed out, whenever she asked, had been a part of the laws of all cultures from the beginning of time. A woman must be faithful to her husband, lest she be punished by stoning or other means of death for the crime of adultery. He, on the other hand, could lay with any unmarried female he chose, saving his wife from the chore of conjugal duties. To further complicate their relationship, he spouted the belief that women should never enjoy sex, because that reaction indicated a woman given to fornication. A wife belonged to her husband, the same as any property, and he could demand whatever he wanted from her. Forgotten were their marriage vows: “Keep thee only to thyselves, forsaking all others.” which kept her with him, resolved to tolerate his waywardness.

     Increasingly, he left her alone at Crazy Horse, being absent for days or weeks and would return without so much as a brief greeting. Instead, he would lock his chamber door which separated their sleeping rooms.

     One night, upon hearing feminine giggles, gasps and moans, through the concrete walls, she left her bedroom and burst through the doors of the adjacent room, where she beheld her husband’s bare buttocks and back thrusting on an unseen woman beneath him.

     “How _can_ you?”

     At her words, he turned and glared at her. “How dare _you_!” Regardless of his disregard of her accusation, he rolled off the woman, uncovering a face she couldn’t believe.

     The woman lying there, a smug, brainless expression on her face, bore an identical resemblance to Cassandra: the same dark hair; the same gray eyes; the same pale skin; ripe figure; and oval face. The only difference lay in her age, because she appeared a good five years younger.

     “Dear God,” she uttered with a gasp. “This—this is what you expect me to accept, here in our home. I never doubted you engaged in sex with other women when away, but this—this is unconscionable!”

     “Out!” Heinrich ordered the other woman, obviously Cassandra’s clone. With her gone, he stood up and approached his wife, completely nude, disregarding his nudity and still aroused state.

     He gripped here arm, tightly, and pulled her against him, eyes hardened and mouth stern as he pushed his face against hers and hissed, “This is no concern of yours. I do what I want I want to satisfy my needs, whether by using another woman or your clones.”

     “Clones, as in plural? How many do you have?”

     “I’ve lost count.”

     “Tell me, Heinrich—”

     He increased the pressure on her arm. “I told you never to call me that again, bitch. Now go back to where you belong!” With a forceful shove, he propelled her toward the still open door of her bedchamber.

     “A woman has her needs, too,” she spit back from the doorway. “How would you feel if I appropriated one of your clones to warm _my_ bed?”

     In response, he raised a fist and started toward her, but she quickly shut the door and locked it behind her.

 

      A few weeks later, each night punctuated by more sounds of him and other women (more clones?) in the throes of sex, he departed again, leaving no word of farewell by note, presence or messenger. On these many nights, whether he was nearby or away, Max would vault onto her bed and snuggle against her, whereon she wrapped her arms about his furry black neck and sobbed bitter tears of betrayal.

    Heinrich would still have her accompany him to outlying settlements where he considered her presence necessary, showering her with gifts and affection in public, but once private ignored her and resumed the coldness between them. The word “Beloved” became nothing more than another noun of the few he allowed, whenever they shared the same space, this one lacking its original, special meaning of rich affection.

     Familiar with the varying signs of “clone madness” both from observing her mother and the other clones who inhabited Sanctuary, Cassandra knew Heinrich’s similar behavior accounted for his increasingly strange actions. She recalled other words of their marriage vows: “In sickness and in health til death us do part.” If not a sickness, how could she explain his lack of compassion, the bitter words and filthy slurs he aimed at her, whenever she questioned his conduct? So, she remained, silent, accepting, and heartbroken, abiding by what she swore in that faraway Austrian church.

    

      Still at Crazy Horse a month later, they had sex at the full moon as usual. Cassandra couldn’t call it making love. It ceased being so many months before. Oh, he did still love her, but sex was sex—procreation—mechanical, fraughtless of emotion.

     In desperation, she sat down during one of his absences and wrote him a letter, using paper she found in a desk drawer and an ink pen, unconcerned regarding his ability to read cursive writing or not. She didn’t care. Things had progressed from bad to worse. Four Thinker agents guarded her locked bedroom door, preventing her leaving for any reason. Since he left this time, she could no longer access the library or the monitor room, much less Thinker’s core or programming board.

    

     _My husband_ , she began, not daring to use any name and lacking the emotion to use any of the many allowed terms of endearment.

_Do you still love me, do you still consider those vows we made five years ago as holy, according to the Church and its tenants? If you do, then you must understand my pain over your behavior these last years. You vowed to keep yourself only unto me, forsaking all others. Do you think by having congress with my clones you keep this vow? These are other women, not me, they want my knowledge gained by study and life experience, they want what makes me uniquely me. Again, I ask, how can you? How can you hurt me this way? Why do you cling to such archaic ideas justifying your taking other women to your bed and think me blinded?_

     _Early in our relationship, you were considerate of my feelings, my intelligence, and never doubted my loyalty and faithfulness to you. But none of these exists between us now. You have destroyed it all._

_How can I abide being a prisoner in my own home? What have I done to merit such isolation and punishment? I am the Matriarch, and yet I am treated as the lowest of lowlies, disallowed any contact with another human being. Not even the guards you’ve set upon my door will speak to me. I have no contact with the outside world, much less my own people, since you’ve made sure any chance of that is eradicated or beyond my reach._

_How do you expect me to abide this treatment? You are my husband and I am your wife. Do you not owe me the respect I deserve as your life partner? Do you not owe me the vow to honor me, at least?_

_I will write nothing else. Let these words weigh on your conscience, if you still have one, and adjust your treatment of me accordingly._

    

     She signed with a simple initial, “C,” then slipped the folded paper under the door which connected their bedrooms.

 

     Three nights later, laying abed in a simple synthlinen sleepshift and reading one of the few bound volumes of literature she secured before her “imprisonment,” she heard movement on the other side, silence, followed by Heinrich crashing through the door between their bedrooms, the letter clutched in his hands and red fury on his face. In reaction, she nodded, having expected his reaction.

     “What is the meaning of this?” he roared, shaking the crumbled piece of paper in her face.

     Cassandra glanced up from the book, then returned her attention to the page and paragraph marked by her left hand.

     “Any other would think it self-explanatory.”

     “You dare challenge my decisions?” he said, throwing the letter on the floor and stomping on it with booted foot, still encrusted with mud from his time Outside.

     “I am the Matriarch and retain the right to challenge whomever I wish.”

     “Not me, not ever.”

     “What more can you do to me, Heinrich?”

     He grabbed her arm and made her rise to face him. “I can make sure you never challenge me again, is what?”

     “How, by killing me?” she countered, lips stretched tight and eyes narrowed.

     He released her, uttering a few choice cuss words, in German, previously unheard, before saying, “God knows why I tolerate you and your impudence.”

      “Maybe we never should have married. Would that have made you happier?”

     Anger still consuming his features and expressed in the tense state of his limbs and body, he stared at her, blue eyes studying her face and then lowering to take in her figure in the semi-transparent fabric. She noticed his reaction at the last, upon casting her gaze downward then raised it to his face, awaiting his answer.

     His breath coming in strong exhales, his hands curled into fists, and he nodded, giving his verdict. “Things will remain as they are.” Another huff of air later, he turned, letting his long strides take him back to his own room.

 

      With Heinrich’s last words, decreeing her fate, she began catching him in little lies…half-truths, on those few occasions they spoke. Had he ever ceased lying to her? she wondered.

     She conceived again, being extremely fertile, except this time she didn’t tell her husband. It would be her secret. He had his secrets, ones he blocked from her mental probes. He’d learned this early on in their marriages. How, she wasn’t sure. So, this one would be Cassandra’s secret, this male child she carried in her womb, this child who would see the light of day beside her in the future. She could escape, hide among the gypsies, if she was unable to contact the Meldanans. Surely, some would still be in contact. There was the House in the South. It would still be there. As to transportation, she had watched Heinrich often enough to know the operation of the paravane, knew the locations of fueling stations, knew the codes, and could smuggle supplies to the ‘vane over the months prior to when she left. Somehow, she would get home.

     On the other hand, the words of the marriage ceremony re-entered her brain. “Till death us do part.” How could she desert him? She had made the vows: ones to commit, to honor, to obey. And she had been obedient, hadn’t she?

     Cassandra recalled her mother saying clones seemed to be genetically weak, especially mentally, emotionally. Somewhere in their genetic code a streak of madness always existed, waiting for a certain event to trigger it and let out the devils. This wasn’t noticeable at first, she had said, speaking of her own streak, but then a little thing happened, something any whole person could shrug off easily, but what a clone couldn’t cope with and proved ultimately fatal.

     Was this what Cassandra noticed in Heinrich—that streak of weakness? He was a genius. A mad genius? Perhaps. But he hadn’t begun that way, had he?

     _“Til Death us do part.”_

     That was the only way.

 

       Another month passed, and the moon was full. Heinrich mounted Cassandra, as he had each unpregnant month since their marriage, although this time was different. She felt compassion, love flowing from his mind, but knew the time for the renewal of such emotions between them had passed years ago. Not long after his climax, she pulled the encrusted, medieval dagger from her boot and stabbed him in the back. He rolled off, gasping, bright blue eyes wide and questioning.

     “Why, my love?” he sputtered through blood-flecked lips.

     “For the children, beloved. For the children.” She plunged the bejeweled dagger into him again and again, once for each child she had “lost” to the cities and the RegComs without number.

      Blood flowing onto the stark, death-like whiteness of the tousled sheets and with him lifeless, she could scarce believe herself capable of this act, which only a few years ago she would never have considered. But he had been mad, hadn’t he? And she couldn’t let him make her mad, too. She was the Matriarch. The same as her grandmother had been the First Matriarch of Meldana, Cassandra was the First Matriarch of Earth. There was no need for her to return to Sanctuary or even Meldana. She would lead the people of Earth and set this one son above all others, train him to lead the citizens, judiciously evaluate and change Thinker’s programs, for the good of all mankind. Meanwhile, she needed to escape from this blood-spattered scene and distance herself from blame.

     Taking the paravane, Max, and what few belongings she could stow in the air vehicle, Cassandra left Crazy Horse, sealing the hidden entrance securely behind her. Yes, she would go to the gypsies. There she would find solitude until her son was old enough to reveal as the Heir

Apparent. No one would question her; no one would tell her what to do or when to do it. She

would be revered.

     But the gypsies were too bizarre for her more refined senses—consumed with pleasure and sex-sex-sex, and on leaving there, thinking she would be welcomed at the MedFacs, discovered herself unwelcome without the Patriarch beside her. The Thinker-agent had so brain-washed them to do nothing without his authority, they were afraid to so much as admit her entrance to the facility.

     She tried a few cities, still yearning for human companionship, Max’s presence not being enough, but the dog’s formidable presence made city people keep their distance, not to mention they were so in awe of this purple-garbed figure, they gave her a wide berth. Even those whose emotions were more hardened assaulted Cassandra’s heightened sensitivities with their overt adoration. To the simple-minded citizens, she and Heinrich were gods. How could she tell them he was dead? Gods were immortal. When the Citz did speak to her, it was to spout their newfound values of procreation espoused by the Patriarch. They could see her ever-swelling belly and marveled that it held new life. They also questioned, repeatedly, the absence of the Patriarch.

     “He and I decided to separate to spread the Word more rapidly,” became her patent reply.

     “My friend in Shreveport saw him there last week,” said one man at New City, accompanied by acknowledging nods of those surrounding him. But she dismissed the report herself. He was dead. There’d been no heartbeat, no brain activity when she left Crazy Horse.

     “Yes,” she replied to the man’s news, “he is traveling in that part of the country.”

     Operatives at the various DS Headquarters she visited backed away and gave her plenty of space to do whatever she wanted. Allowed this freedom, she searched CC for records on those friends she’d known at Sanctuary, some who had remained there and might now be here, as well as the ones she knew had become agents. Nothing existed.

     Had Heinrich deleted all this information on purpose, so she would have no recourse but to live with him?

 

     Months passed and her pregnancy advanced closer to term. Each RegCom sent delegates to whatever city they knew she currently lived in, begging her to let them deliver the child, but Cassandra refused them all. She knew where this one would be born, and that didn’t include the cities or a medfac or a gypsy camp. It would be the House. Would the House be deserted? Despite being built by Sanctuary-agents, Thinker-agents also used it. There would be power there, fueled by solar energy. Would she be able to reach someone at Sanctuary through the com there, or had they all gone?

 

     Days later, in the midst of winter, she landed at Victoria Station on the Gulf of Mexico, parked the paravane in a thick stand of live oak trees, the only foliage remaining in an otherwise naked landscape of barren mesquite and ochre-colored grass. While Max nosed around, she draped a camo-net over the van to hide its presence.

     The House was empty, and she walked to the lab, touched the durasteel table and could see her mother there, restrained, tubes and monitors trailing from her unconscious body. Jonathan had left her there while he made a trip to Sanctuary II, but the Thinker sent its agent, Dubonnet, to kidnap her and remove her to Shreveport. What had followed led her to madness.

    While Max explored the few rooms, Cassandra sat down at the computer console. Finding it operational, she tapped in the Sanctuary call code. In response, the screen remained blank. She left it, checking the food processor levels. There seemed to be enough chemicals within to process food for several months. With her bloated body eased into the soft, cushioned chair near the console, she soon fell asleep, dreaming the same visions during all her pregnancies of a living Heinrich comforting her after each RegCom visit. This time, however, Heinrich had arisen from the dead: a Heinrich bent on revenge.

 

     Days passed in loneliness, days of reading the ancient books in their original hardbound form: _Qua Vadis, Tom Sawyer, Gone with The Wind, Ben Hur, The Ten Commandments_. She’d brought them with her from the library vault at Crazy Horse along with many others on pregnancy, child birth and rearing. Her constant companion, Max, would be beside her, either at her feet, or if she reclined on the single sofa, he would join her there and rest his head in her lap, where she would stroke his broad head or rub him behind the ears, as he grumbled in contentment.

     This afternoon, her body demanding sleep, she dozed off only to be awakened by a strange noise outside the House door. Max, now alert, stood rigid on the couch, facing the opening which she knew was invisible from outside. Cassandra drew the deathly dagger from her boot; it was all she had in the way of protection except for Max. The door opened ever so slowly, and a male form filled it completely.

     He started toward her, in spite of Max’s warning growl.

     “Max, watch!” she commanded, but knew at the first threatening movement, the dog would attack. Regardless, the man continued approaching her, coming into the dim light of the living area.

     “You!” Cassandra whispered.

     “Surprised? Thought I’d get more of a greeting than this, though.”

     Her eyes welling with tears, her hand trembled on the dagger’s hilt, fingers loosening their grip and allowing the weapon to fall to the floor. Her lips formed his name, but no sound escaped until she managed, “I thought I’d never see you again. I’m sorry, so sorry. I should have—”

     He never let her finish, wrapping his arms about her swollen form until she was clasped close against him, close enough to feel his heart beating strongly against her breast.

     Max eased into a down position, upon sensing the loss of threat, though still watched for suspicious behavior from the newcomer.

     Cassandra reached up, touching the familiar features with her fingertips, as the man stroked her hair and cheek. “I should have listened to you,” she said, at last. “How did you ever find me?”

     “Your console,” he said, nodding at the terminal she had left turned on. “Just followed the signal. I knew you couldn’t have simply disappeared. I couldn’t give up, even when everyone else did.”

     Max was up and growling once more at the doorway, and the two humans turned in that direction to see a new figure, also male, enter.

     “Well, well, isn’t this a pretty picture. My wife, the whore, caught in the act.”

     Cassandra separated from the other man, each member of the three now standing equidistance from one another.

     “Didn’t I tell you never to put into a computer or say anything you didn’t want Thinker to know? Looks like you never learned that simple little lesson, huh, slut?”

     “But you’re dead,” Cassandra murmured.

    Heinrich spread his muscular arms. “Do I look dead? Stupid bitch. Did you really think you could kill me? Did you really think I wouldn’t have some safeguards against my death? All I had to do was leave a directive with the MedFacs that if they didn’t hear from me every twenty-four hours to come to my last known location. If I was dead, they were to remove my brain and implant it into one of my clones.”

     “What are you going to do to her?” asked the other man.

     “The slut? Why? Do you want her? You can have her. I don’t need her anymore.”

     “You don’t need—” began Cassandra.

     “No, cunt, I don’t. I’ve got clones of you, too, ones who won’t keep questioning my actions, ones who don’t give a shit who I fuck or when, clones who can make babies as good as you do. You’re trouble, I don’t want or need. Not anymore.”

     He looked briefly at the other man, an odd expression on his angry face. “I know you, don’t I? You’re not just another—agent, are you?” An even stranger look of recognition overcame Heinrich face. “We were at New City together. I remember you now. Yes, your name is…it’s…”

     His face dropped as he did remember, his brilliant blue eyes opening wide in both fear and realization. “Francis Eight,” he whispered in awe.

     The other man smiled. “So, you do remember. I always wondered what happened to you; but then I was sent to Sanctuary and unable to follow what was going on down here.

     Cassandra had moved into a corner behind Max, watching this strange reunion. Her old lover from Sanctuary and her Earth husband confronting each other. What would be the outcome? Why did Max eye Heinrich more suspiciously than Francis? Was there something he sensed the same as he had almost a year ago, when his allegiance left Heinrich and had gone over completely to her? The reversal of loyalty left Heinrich livid, and he had nearly killed the dog over the defection. Was it because Heinrich had been going mad and Max no longer recognized him? Was Max trying to tell her now this new Heinrich was mad, too?

     She swept her eyes over Heinrich’s form, searching for some kind of weapon, and discovered he no longer carried the dagger similar to hers in his own boot. The words between the two ex-Sandmen became more heated, Heinrich’s filthily insulting, Francis’ direct and accusing. Cass saw Heinrich reach for something inside his vest, and in the scant second it took for her to realize what it was, she’d issued Max the command he’d been waiting for. But would he obey?

     It all seemed to pass in slow-motion, the dark, hair-covered form galloping past her in a direct line to the two struggling men then pushing each other away. Heinrich aiming the weapon at the other man, jealousy and hatred engulfing him beyond reason. The dog attacking his former master with the full force of his one-hundred-and-fifty pounds on the armed hand, brought the mad clone hard to the harder titled floor.

     The small gun fell from Heinrich’s grasp, and Francis reached for it but Max had finished off the other, tearing out his throat in one blood shake of his strong jaws and stood over his victim’s limp body.

     “Max, out!” Cassandra commanded, and the dog returned to heel at her left side.

     “We’ll have to destroy the body,” Francis was saying to a strangely calm Cassandra, “so Medfac can’t use the brain again,”

     She nodded, quietly. “We’ll build a pyre. Burn him.”

     “I’ll do it. You rest here.” Francis left, dragging the clone’s body into the clearing.

     With plenty of fallen wood available, the pyre took form quickly under and around the dead Thinker. Francis lit the fire and backed away from the intense, sudden heat, when the bitter wind blew it toward him.

     Cassandra came out of the House just then, Max beside her, and watched as the flames climbed higher and higher into the clear night sky. She hadn’t realized night had descended until that moment.

     “I want to go home,” she whispered.

     “There is no more Sanctuary,” answered Francis. “When they left, I volunteered to stay on Earth and look for you.”

 

      In Cassandra’s eyes, Francis could see the flames of the funeral fire reflected there, eyes filled with intense pain, unlike any he’d seen her exhibit before. Consumed by it, he thought, from the loss of Heinrich, he realized the cause was something else, when she doubled over, clutching her belly.

     “The baby?” he asked. “Now? Here?”

     She nodded vigorously and headed back into the House.

 

     Beyond the cover of liveoaks, another male figure waited, observing, calculating as he’d been taught, for the most opportune moment for his own entrance to the House. The thoughts in his newly awakened brain were ancient ones, reaching back nearly one hundred years of Earth time, but his body was young and strong, corded with well-trained muscle and sinew. His face a pale tan, his long hair, pale and flaxen like a legendary Viking warrior, his hand touched the jeweled dagger on the sleeve scabbard of his purple trimfits, reassuring himself of its presence in future time of need. Within his brain, an innate sense of timing told him this was the moment for which he’d waited a lifetime. His feet led him out into the small clearing and toward the House.

 

     Inside, Francis had laid Cassandra on a couchlike piece of furniture up against one of the curved walls. Her contraction strong but several minutes apart, she now rested, catching her breath before the next onslaught of pain.

     “It’s just like I read about,” she was telling him, “but more painful. The book said the amount of pain differed from woman to woman.”

     Francis brushed a strand of wet hair from her forehead. She could feel the affection he still bore her, but it lacked the same intense love she assumed he felt two years previous. Had it only been two years?

     Cassandra touched his hand, lightly, and he took it in his, as he bent and kissed her gently. No, not the same. Not for him, not for her. She no longer felt the heat pulsing through her body with his very touch. That was gone.

     He looked at her, as if sensing her thoughts. His gaze fell, guiltily. Each said nothing, merely waiting, unknown, for what would happen next.

     At that moment, the newcomer chose to make his presence known. Max remained quiet, although watchful, the only sound in the House that of Cassandra’s heavier than normal breathing.

     “Thank God, I’ve found you!”

     The other two’s heads turned as one to the doorway.

     “No,” Cassandra uttered with a gasp. “Not again. Please, not again!” Was this man bent upon her madness, too?

     As if in denial, the Rottweiler joined the blond new arrival and leaned up against him to have his ear rubbed, which the man obliged him quite well.

     “I’ve missed you, old boy,” he said looking down at the beast. “It’s all right, Cass,” he said to the woman. “The other was a mistake but escaped before the medtechs could stop him. He received the Patriarch’s brain, but I was given all his thoughts, minus the defective ones.”

     “You’re also a clone, then?” asked Francis, seeing Cassandra was speechless.

     “Of course. How else did you--?” He gazed at the woman, entering the throes of another contraction, face strained, body tense. “This is why, Cass. This is why, I never let you carry a fetus to term, so you wouldn’t have to endure this pain. I loved you too much, didn’t you realize that?”  He went to her, and Francis stepped aside.

     The woman took her husband’s hand, gripping it hard, while the tightening of her womb worked its way toward culmination. _Yes_ , she acknowledged, _this was him. Yes, he did love her. There was no madness._

     His other hand placed on her currently slack belly, she could feel the warmth penetrate to the child within…their child, and then loving heat spread throughout her entire body, surrounding her in a protective blanket of comfort and security.

     “It’s all right, my love. I’m not angry with you for killing the other or the one before. It was time. You did what was needed. The old Legion had served his time, so it was time he be terminated.”

     She regarded the unlined face as it searched her own for a single glimmer of returned love. This man was her destiny. This man, in whatever forms he took, in whatever body her own thoughts would reside, as well. There’d be no more lies. No more madness. It seemed the medtechs had solved the problem of “clone madness.”

    Neither noticed when Francis left, not even Max, his head insinuated between his master and mistress, resting on the edge of the couch as they awaited the birth of their True Firstborn. By the time the child entered the world of Earth in the year 2304 on the Third of Capricorn, the man known as Francis Eight, was well on his way to his next assignment.

     Within the small House, the infant who would be named Ballard Four, poked a tiny red fist into the air and howled in ineffective defiance as his parents and a big black dog looked on in affectionate amusement.

 

The End


End file.
